


Here Be Monsters

by Agent_Talis



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Box of Tricks 2016, Case Fic, M/M, Magic AU, Mind Games, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, big bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8357059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Talis/pseuds/Agent_Talis
Summary: After their colleague is murdered under mysterious circumstances, Bodie and Doyle are plunged into an underworld that they never knew existed. London is threatened by a brewing turf war and the agents are suddenly strangers in a familiar land. Add in the presumed drug-assisted suicide of one of Doyle’s informers plus Cowley’s cagey behaviour, and you have a situation way above their pay grade.Magic isn’t real… right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks must go out to the absolutely fantastic Big Bang mods for all their hard work and their perseverance with my internet problems. You guys were awesome: pour yourselves a drink. :-)
> 
> Also thanks to my class artists, GiseeRouchon for her frankly awe-inspiring film poster and graphic novel pictures and scfossil for her brilliant manips featuring my cu sidhe monster. My story is undeserving. :-)

It was dark and a man was running for his life. He skidded around the corner, ragged breaths piercing his lungs, exposed skin shining pale under the dim glow of the distant moon. Water added desperate tempo to his escape; it was the first night in nearly a week that the heavens hadn’t split open and the street was dotted with puddles gleaming jewel-like under his feet. A few times the man slowed to take a breath and peer behind him into the impenetrable night, but he was soon sprinting again, cursing his boss and all the criminal elements of London. Once he even slowed to a standstill, dragged a battered R/T from his coat pocket and tested it. Shaking it in disgust, the man shoved it away and broke into a bobbing trot, checking behind him as he went. He could hear cars chittering not too far away from where he was; if he could reach the light and safety…

He burst out onto the street still in one piece. There were a few hurrying people who gave him strange, searching glances as he bent over, gasping. Sweat stuck his tailored shirt to his back and his hands were shaky and slippery. He sprinted across the road, yanked open the glassless door of a telephone box and nearly fell inside. Lungs burning painfully and heart thrumming like a violin string; he grabbed for the phone, missed, and tried again. The street was now deserted. He thought he could see a shadow in the alleyway, creeping towards him. Fumbling in his pockets for some loose change, the man rested his head against the frame of the telephone box and exhaled heavily. “Please, please pick up…”

The voice on the other end was sharp and unmistakable, “Yes?”

“Sir? It’s Hume.”

“What is it, man?” George Cowley snapped, “I thought you were undercover!”

“It’s been blown,” Hume retorted, “Listen, sir, they’ve got some sort of weapon – I don’t know what it is, except it’s _fucking_ scary, sir.”

Hume never swore. Ever.

“Who has this weapon? Where are you?” Cowley asked, rummaging through his desk and gesturing at Betty.

“Sir, I – “

The scream was brief, but it lingered in Cowley’s imagination for a very, very long time. It was raw and painful to hear and chilled the dour Scotsman to his soul. “Hume! Hume, answer me!”

Hume didn’t answer. He never would. The phone clanged against the peeling painted frame of the telephone box.

They found most of his body three hours later.

***

The phone was ringing.

Doyle dug his way out from under the covers; bleary eyed, hair matted, blinking like a mole exposed to the light. The noise sent pangs of pain through his head and Doyle debated ignoring it. It kept going.

Doyle finally opted for murder – preferably with the phone. Most likely using the cord as a garrotte, he decided, as he crawled across the bed. Yawning widely, he managed to hook the phone from the cradle and pull it back under the sheets. “Ray Doyle. This better be important.”

“4.5? You’re wanted back at HQ.”

Doyle groaned, “I’m off-duty!”

“Well, you’re back on,” it was Margaret, one of the more experienced operators, and she had little time for any of the agents’ charms or lack thereof. “Cowley wants you back now.”

“You know I only got home – “ he checked his watch and sighed, “ – five hours ago? And I was on duty until –“

“Save it, 4.5,” even Margaret wasn’t usually this snappy, “Cowley’s calling you in. If it’s any consolation, 3.7 is next on my list.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Doyle replaced the phone and hit his head against the pillow a few times in frustration. It didn’t help. He slithered out of bed and noted in disgust he was still wearing the stained green shirt from yesterday. As he staggered to the bathroom, Doyle noted with a little satisfaction that at least he wasn’t going to be alone to face the Cow’s fury.

Mind you, Bodie had managed to wrangle a few more hours to kip, so Doyle didn’t feel too beholden to be pleasant to his partner.

Twenty minutes, a shower and a change of clothes later, Doyle was feeling a bit more human and less like he’d been dragged through a bush backwards. Breaking the speed limit down Whitehall, phantom images began clamouring for his attention and throwing up questions and shadowy hypotheses for the reason he was being called in. The roads were empty like they should be at four in the morning and Doyle couldn’t stop himself from checking whether he was being tailed. Something about this was dragging at his copper senses; whether it was the suddenness of the change of orders or the fact that Bodie was apparently involved as well.

The drizzle floated back up from under his feet, the rain cold and sour-tasting as he breathed it in. It was a perfect example of a wet March morning and Doyle was longingly thinking of his bed. Well, his bed with the addition of a warm body in it. Somehow, he never really felt cosy enough at night now, unless he had a Bodie-shaped pillow to annoy and fall asleep on…

Quickly he shook that thought out of his head. You’re at work, he reminded himself, here you and Bodie are just partners – friends.

Yeah.

Waving his I.D at the guard, Doyle jogged inside, trying to shake most of the wet out of his hair. He reached his boss’ office and had raised his hand to knock when a voice called, “Cowley’s not in there.”

Doyle spun round, hand half-way to his weapon. Realising it was Murphy who had spoken, he replied, “Where is he? I got called in.”

“He’s in the projector room,” Murphy said, ambling down towards him. Like Doyle, his face showed a distressing lack of sleep, “I got roused out of bed this morning.”

“Me too,” Doyle grinned, “What do you think we did?”

Murphy shrugged, “Whatever it was it’s got to be bad for the old man to be this sadistic – I’m pretty sure Hannah will pack me in before tomorrow.”

Doyle winced, “Rough, Murph. Were you actually…”

“Yes,” Murphy covered his eyes dramatically, “Woe is me. I liked Hannah.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea,” a new voice intoned, “And a good-looking lad like you would have girls falling over themselves.”

Murphy glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes, “Such a vote of confidence coming from you.”

Bodie swaggered up to them, looking revoltingly awake and fresh, “Well, I am tall, dark and beautiful.”

“And engagingly modest,” Doyle finished, raising his eyebrows. Bodie grinned at him and ruffled his partner’s hair.

 “Better than your mop, sunshine,” he replied. His hand stayed a little too long, but Murphy didn’t notice; he had already moved off down the corridor towards the projector room. Bodie let his hand flit down, tapped Doyle’s waist and murmured in his ear, “I thought you only just got off-duty?”

Doyle wrinkled his nose, remembering his warm cocoon, “Yeah, don’t remind me.”

“Bloody Cowley, he does know that we’ve been doing double-shifts for weeks, doesn’t he?”

“Ah, Bodie, Cowley’s a robot. He can’t understand the fact that humans need to sleep,” Doyle replied sulkily. “If ‘e keeps dragging me in at oh God o’clock then I swear I’m going to start snoring during briefings.”

“I think this one will be interesting enough to keep you awake, 4.5, and may I remind you that I own you. It’s in your contract,” Cowley’s voice could have cut through glass. “Get in here.”

Doyle winced, “Sir.”

***

There were two other agents lounging on the hard-backed chairs; Murphy, and Susan. There were more chairs than people and Bodie and Doyle slipped in with a minimum of scathing remarks about their timekeeping. Doyle managed to snag a chair and shift it, casually, so he was near enough to Bodie to feel his heat radiating from under his shirt. Bodie flashed him a quick grin when he saw what Doyle had done.

Cowley was standing at the front; his hands folded military-style behind him. He let his gaze sweep over his assembled agents, treating them all to an icy glare before he spoke. Removing his glasses, he let them dangle from his fingers and catch the light, “I regret to inform you that Scott Hume was found dead at two am this morning.”

Immediately the easy silence broke as the other agents glanced at each other, frowning, nervous. “Dead?” that was from Susan.

“How?”

“Where, when?”

Only Bodie didn’t speak, but exhaled heavily, glad of the whisper of Doyle’s shirt as he shifted. It anchored him to the here and now. Another one bites the dust… he thought, another one gone. Each death made him curl inwards a little more on himself, fervently glad that it wasn’t him, that it wasn’t Doyle.

Cowley waited for the agents to fall silent. “Hume was undercover, keeping an eye on a gang leader. He discovered something, evidently, his cover was blown and he was forced to run. Hume called me,” he produced a tape recorder from the desk to his left and deliberately placed it on the table. “Here, listen.”

He pressed play. The agents all leant forwards; bodies poised and grim determination hardening their faces. “Sir? It’s Hume,” he was out of breath, his voice shaky.

“What is it, man? I thought you were undercover!”

“It’s been blown,” only Hume could respond with such sarcasm, “Listen, sir, they’ve got some sort of weapon – I don’t know what it is, except it’s fucking scary, sir.”

Bodie and Doyle both blinked and glanced at each other. Cowley could read the alarm on their faces and he knew they were thinking of the bowling alley case, nearly four years ago. Shades of John Fraser, he thought, poor Fraser.

“Who has this weapon? Where are you?” They could hear Cowley scrabbling for a pen. Something clicked faintly in the background, like a knife tapping stone.

“Sir, I – “

The scream made them all flinch. Cowley held himself perfectly still; refusing to show the same weakness he had when he had first heard it.

“Hume! Hu-“

Cowley switched the tape recorder off. He regarded the pale faces of his agents and said, “Those were the last words of Scott Hume.”

Horrified, Doyle asked hesitatingly, “What killed him, sir?”

“A dog?” Susan suggested. Cowley tilted his head at her and she added, “That noise, sir. It sounded like a dog with its claws extended, running.”

“Can’t have been a dog,” Bodie retorted, “Wouldn’t a dog bark?”

“Not necessarily,” she answered, “If it was well trained, it wouldn’t.”

“He mentioned a weapon,” Murphy added.

"True, that could be it," Susan conceded.

“How was he killed?” Doyle asked again.

Cowley sighed and tapped his glasses against his hand. “We aren’t entirely sure,” he said finally, “But it seems to be consistent with mauling, but for one small issue.”

“And what’s that?”

“The dog would have had to be big enough to remove his head from his body.”

“Je-sus,” Murphy exclaimed. “He was decapitated?”

Cowley gave a swift nod of his head. “I don’t like losing men and this case smells bad, ladies and gentlemen. Whatever killed Hume is dangerous and powerful. No dog can be that big, and, whatever it is, it is loose in London, right now. Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, this disturbs me.”

“Who was Hume keeping an eye on?” Bodie asked. Cowley walked past them and switched on the projector. A square of white light assaulted their senses, leaving blurred splodges in their vision. Slowly, a black and white image of a young man rolled into life.

The man, not much more than a boy, was lean and quite small. A hood was pulled up over his head, but his puffy fringe stuck out from it, whipped by the wind. The camera angle meant to his face was also quite visible, and Doyle took the opportunity to study it as closely as he could. The youth’s chin jutted sharply and his features were pinched, giving his face a mean look. He would have been half-way handsome, Doyle supposed, if it wasn’t for his differently sized eyes. The left one was noticeably bigger than his right.

“This is Celeb Jadis, birth name Saul James. He’s head of a large gang that specialises in extortion and protection rackets. No mention of weapon smuggling. Very young, but has already amassed a huge following. Hume was to infiltrate the gang to try and crack a bribery ring James was running. Unfortunately, his cover was blown, Hume panicked and he was consequently killed.”

“Whatever it was, it was big,” Murphy said, “Hume didn’t scare easily.”

Cowley nodded, placing his hands on the table. “That’s right. That’s why no one is to investigate this alone. You stay with your partner, no one goes off by themselves. I don’t want another dead agent. Bodie, Doyle; I want you to ask around, lean on your contacts in the area,” they nodded and started to get up to leave, “Susan, Murphy; you get to this address and stake it out. I want no heroics, no going in without my say so. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir, crystal clear, sir,” Bodie and Doyle chorused. Murphy and Susan echoed them. There was no hint of mockery or jokes in their tone.

As soon as the door shut behind them Doyle glanced over at Bodie. His stomach was roiling and obscenely clear images were floating in his mind. Hume decapitated in a London street trying to warn Cowley about a weapon – a weapon he was perhaps a victim of. “I don’t like this,” he said.

Bodie tilted his head, “Neither do I, whatever this is it has Cowley rattled.”

“Yeah, remember the bowling alley bomb? That’s the only time I’ve ever seen the Cow really nervy.”

“As I recall,” Bodie said, snatching Doyle’s sleeve and towing him down the corridor, “You weren’t too calm yourself.”

Doyle glared at his partner, “What can I say? I have a phobia of bombs that can vaporise me.”

Bodie chuckled and swiped his free hand across Doyle’s curls, “Listen, you still got that snout down near the river?”

Doyle frowned a moment, tugging at his lip, “You mean Marley? Yeah, he’s still working for me. Why, you think he saw something?”

“He’s always seen something, the nosy bugger.”

“True,” Doyle shrugged, “He lives in the area.”

Bodie smiled at him, Doyle noticed that it looked a little strained around the edges and he knew that Bodie was thinking of Scott Hume’s head separating from his body like some second-rate B-movie murder. Would it have bounced, Doyle found himself speculating, or just stopped where it had fallen? Had anyone seen the deed?

“Hey, Doyle?”

Doyle blinked, aware that he’d frozen, “Yeah?”

“Stand there any longer and you’ll grow roots, sunshine. Come on. We’re on a Marley hunt.”

***

Cowley limped down the sterile corridor, feeling the whisky sloshing in his stomach. He’d thrown back a few shots in the sanctuary of his office – a touch of Dutch courage.

He was going to see the coroner about Scott Hume’s death and already he could guess at what the problem would be. He hoped to God that the coroner hadn’t discovered anything odder than the shredded limbs, but a creeping sensation was stealing through his veins. He hoped his suspicions were wrong – he’d been out of the game a very long time and it wasn’t like riding a bike. You couldn’t just jump back into something like this and hope for best. That was one sure way of getting yourself killed, he thought bitterly.

He turned the corner and pushed open the imposing grey doors, “Morning, Ellice. Do you have a verdict?”

Ellice spared him a quick glance over his shoulder. He always reminded Cowley of a vulture; hooked nose; dark, dark eyes and thinning feathers tufting at the top of his head. “Well, I can say that your man is dead, but not instantaneously I’m sorry to say.”

“And?” Cowley tried not to let his apprehension show. When Ellice didn’t answer immediately, he snapped, “Well, man, what killed him?”

Ellice turned around, his hands tucked behind his back, “My best guess would be an escaped tiger or lion, Mr Cowley, but since this is England I will hazard that it was a very large dog. A Mastiff perhaps… or a Rottweiler. But it doesn’t quite add up, Mr Cowley.”

“Doesn’t add up?” Cowley echoed, his stomach sinking.

Ellice nodded and beckoned Cowley over to the table. Cowley obeyed reluctantly. The corpse was mostly covered with a large white sheet, sparing Hume’s body from the indignity of being naked. One side of the sheet fell flatter than the other: they hadn’t found his left hand or forearm. Obviously, Ellice had finished rummaging inside his wounds and had sewn the corpse up again. The only problem was the noticeable gap between Hume’s neck and his head. Cowley swallowed down his meagre breakfast, the whisky burning a hole in his throat, and looked up at Ellice.

Extending his hand, Ellice flipped part of the sheet away, revealing a nasty gash bitten into Hume’s stomach, “That was the first wound, pretty consistent with a dog, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if a dog had done this then it would have left traces: saliva, fur. There’s nothing. If it was a weapon – bladed or otherwise – then there would have been slivers of metal or a slug,” Ellice was audibly annoyed at the uncooperative nature of the world. “To be honest, I thought this was going to be an open and shut case, Mr Cowley, but…”

Cowley licked his lips nervously and immediately regretted it as Ellice caught the movement. Quickly he said, “So it wasn’t a dog?”

“Mr Cowley, I would stake my professional reputation that this was a dog. I can’t think of any method someone could make this much mess,” Ellice explained as he covered Hume fully with the sheet, “The only problem is that there’s no hard evidence to prove it.”

Cowley looked away, recognising the question nestled in the statement. “Put it on the official report then.”

“But –“

“You said it must be a dog. I trust your judgement, Ellice, so put it on the report. Please excuse me. I have to get to a meeting,” Cowley nodded at the coroner and strode out of the autopsy room. He made sure that he didn’t rush, that each step was self-assured and brisk until he was far away from the cloying sterility of the morgue. Only then Cowley leant against the wall and rubbed his face, memories flickering behind his eyes like grit. I could still be wrong, he consoled himself, there could be a rational explanation for all this.

The problem was that logic seemed to point to _that_.

And he did not want to get caught up in that world again.

Cowley was still leaning against the wall when he heard the tentative voice, “Sir? Are you alright?”

Steeling himself, Cowley turned to see Betty looking at him. Her gaze was steady and soft, something that she never let the agents see. It was a look reserved solely for her boss. He smiled wanly, “Of course, Betty. Now, shall we get back to the base?”

Betty glanced up at the bruised sky and nodded vigorously, “Well, sir, I’d rather not get dumped – rained – on if I can help it,” she turned around, smoothing her skirt to try and cover the slip. Her colloquialisms didn’t mean anything to Cowley – he was impressed that she had an almost supernatural understanding of his own slippages into his native Scots – but Betty seemed to think that she had to affect an RP accent as a secretary and his driver. “Shall we, sir?”

“Aye thank you, Betty.”

***

The river was nearly bursting its banks. The constant rain had bloated it and the greasy smell of the water permeated the cobblestones where it had spilt over. Bodie and Doyle strode easily along the pavement, chatting about inconsequential matters in the sunshine. They looked to be completely oblivious to the locals milling past them on their way to work or school, but both men were edgy and secretly scanning every person who walked by for weapons or danger. After one of their own was killed, especially in circumstances like poor Hume had, paranoia soared to new heights. Right now it was about level with the stratosphere.

They had walked the whole length of the street, flicking their gazes over the faces of the street performers, without any meaningful words exchanged before Doyle wandered over towards the river and leant on the railing. The water gleamed like an oil slick, the stench making his nose crumple with distaste. Rubbing his lip thoughtfully, Doyle said, “He’s usually here at this time.”

Bodie joined him, lounging against the wet metal. Wrinkling his face at the stain it left on his coat, he replied, “Maybe he’s taken a day off?” Doyle snorted in response. “All that prancing about. It’d tired anybody out.”

“It’s the dog that does the prancing, you prat!”

“Still, the dog might be tired,” Bodie insisted with such cheery feeling that Doyle wanted to hit him. “C’mon, we’re wasting our time.”

“Excuse me? Who suggested that we talk to Marley?” Doyle growled in response.

“I was just thinking…” Bodie almost whined.

“And it happens so rarely that I couldn’t discourage you, could I?” Doyle shot back, but he couldn’t contain the small grin. Bodie looked good in the sunshine; the rays, weak as they were, caught the tiny hairs and made him look like a haloed Adonis.

Bodie caught his look and waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “Mind on the job, 4.5.”

“OK, OK,” Doyle turned around and propped his back against the railing. Mind on the job… got bloody hard sometimes for both of them. The grin grew wider and he tapped Bodie’s shoulder, flicking his finger towards the other end of the street. “Hey, Bodie. Marley alert.”

“Where?”

“There,” Doyle nodded towards one of the men starting to set up his performance space.

The man was chubby, his badly-cut waistcoat strained across his stomach, with slick ginger hair jammed under a trilby. Two dogs scampered around his feet: a silky Charles Spaniel named Dipper and a brown poodle that looked to still be in the puppy stage. He’s gotten a new one, Doyle thought, and the Lab’s gone. They waited as Marley quickly tied the leads to the railings and began to unpack several hoops and walkways from his roll-along carry case. Every movement was measured, deliberate.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a significant glance. Even Bodie, who had met Marley a grand total of three times and always left in a filthy mood, knew that Marley was usually flamboyant and loud – even setting up. Everything was a show to him.

Doyle sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I think your hunch may have paid off,” he said, nudging his partner’s shoulder. Bodie flashed him a grin. Nodding towards Marley, Doyle led him away from the railings. Both men’s walks shifted considerably, like tigers sensing their prey.

Marley didn’t see them until they were inside his chalk circle and even then he blinked like he wasn’t entirely sure that they were corporal. “H-Hello, Ray. Come to watch the show, have you?” His tone was deliberately cheery, but his eyes were darting side to side, looking for an escape.

Doyle wasn’t fooled for a second.

“Hello, Marley. Where were you last night?”

“I don’t understand…” Marley stuttered as he leant down to pat Dipper who was already straining at the leash and snapping his jaws fiercely at Bodie.

Bodie stepped back, grimaced, and then retorted, “It’s not a trick question, Marley. Where were you?”

“At my home,” Marley answered.

“See anything unusual?” Doyle asked. He patted Dipper without the dog even snarling. Shooting a triumphant look at Bodie, he straightened up again and said, “New dog?”

Marley nodded. With clumsy fingers, he struggled to unclip the poodle’s lead from his stand. Sweat was gleaming on his brow. “Yes, it’s his first day out so I think he’s really excited.”

Doyle eyed the poodle. It was panting, but it looked sleepy rather than eager. “Yeah, he looks keen. We need to talk to you, Marley and it's urgent.”

Marley frowned and stammered, “Can it wait? I mean, I’ve got a performance to put on and your partner is upsetting my dogs.”

“No,” Bodie answered with an icy curl of the lip, “We need to talk to you.”

“OK, OK,” Marley glanced up along the street like he was checking that it was clear, “Buy me breakfast and I’ll… I’ll spare you a couple of minutes.”

“You may not want to finish it,” Bodie warned mournfully.

 

“What’s his name?” Doyle asked as the poodle sniffed his jeans. They had adjourned to a nearby café and all three of them were now tucking into a toasted breakfast. The dog kept getting dangerously close to Doyle’s crotch, but he resisted the urge to bat it away. Up close, he realised how powerful the dog’s jaws looked and he kept seeing Hume in his mind’s eye. Dipper was currently under the table and Bodie had to keep checking that it was staying a safe distance from him.

Marley had the good grace to look sheepish. “Doyle,” he admitted as he took a bite out of his bacon sandwich.

Trying to ignore Bodie’s hoot of laughter, Doyle propped his elbows on the table and said, “So, last night.”

“Last night?” Marley looked at him with wide blue eyes, “Last night was nothing special. I stayed up until eleven – no ten – training Dipper and Doyle here and then went to bed. Nothing special,” he repeated as he took a sip of coffee. His hand shook ever so slightly. “Why?”

“You remember Hume?” Doyle asked.

“Yeah, that’s a man who appreciated how hard it was to train dogs.”

“Then you’d be upset to hear that he’s dead,” Doyle picked at his own sandwich and fixed Marley with a steely glare, “Last night.”

“Decapitated,” Bodie amplified, “Right outside your place.”

Marley choked. Coffee spilled over his waistcoat and, as he moved to try and mop it up with his handkerchief, he knocked his half-finished sandwich to the ground. Dipper pounced on it greedily, but Marley shot the dog a furious glance and it subsided with a whine. “That’s…” Marley began, his voice strangled, “That’s terrible.” All the blood had drained from his face and, at his feet, the two dogs were cringing.

Bodie frowned. The animals were both pressed to the ground, little whimpers issuing from their throats. He looked back up at Doyle’s informant who was trembling so much he couldn’t even keep a grip on his handkerchief. It floated from his hand and settled on the damp cobblestones like a pale moth.

“You,” Doyle said quietly, “Are a terrible liar, Marley.”

Marley leant forwards; gaze pleading, sweat shining clammily on his brow. Two sets of meaty fingers curled around the table edge and gripped like grim death. “You can’t get involved,” he whispered, “You won’t understand.”

“Try us,” Doyle retorted. “What did you see, Marley?”

Marley ran a hand through his ginger hair, tears glistening on his cheeks, “He killed Delphi.”

“Delphi?” Doyle’s eyes widened and he answered himself, “The Labrador?”

Marley nodded. In a gulping sob, he managed, “She was my oldest friend and – and he killed her!” He began to cry openly, a forty-something man sobbing into his hands with fear. Several of the other customers were glancing in their direction.

“Who?” Bodie asked, “Who killed her?”

“She was in pieces!”

“Marley, listen to me. This is important,” Doyle spoke carefully, “If you talk to us, we can get you into protective custody. You _and_ your dogs. If,” he took a breath and fixed his informant with a resolute green stare, “you tell us about Saul James, alias Celeb Jadis.”

Marley glanced up at him, confusion clear on his features through the tears. “Who said anything about Celeb Jadis?”

***

“Jadis…” Marley took a breath and tried again, “Jadis does operate in my area, but I’ve kept my head down regarding him. I’ve not made any trouble so he’s mostly left me alone. He’s a right nutter, that one. I’ve heard some worrying rumours about his parentage…”

“Never mind that,” Bodie said, “Hume. What happened to Hume?”

Marley took another sip of his tea, his hand still trembling. The dogs were gathered close to his feet and fawning, licking his fingers. “I think Jadis did kill him. I wasn’t lying when I said that I was in bed, but… but,” he looked down at his dogs, swallowed, and said, “I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

“At the moment, Marley, we’re willing to believe anything,” Doyle said with barely concealed impatience.

Marley wiped a hand over his brow and then, meeting first Doyle’s and then Bodie’s eyes in turn, said, “I didn’t see this, right?”

“Of course,” Doyle answered sardonically, “You’ve never seen anything.”

Marley scowled. Dipper leapt to his feet and feinted for Doyle’s ankle. “That’s not what I meant!” he practically snarled as Doyle jerked his leg back, “I didn’t actually see what happened, but I looked out afterwards. I didn’t see Jadis, but I did see his dog.”

Bodie, slowly and with an intrigued air, asked, “His dog? What kind of dog?”

“You won’t believe me. You’ll say I’ve been drinking or something.”

“Get on with it.”

“This dog… you can mount a search and I promise you, you won’t find a hair of it. It’s about my height and its fur is dark green. It’s built like a brick shithouse and completely under the control of Jadis. It’ll kill you as soon as look at you. It’s from the old tales. You can’t fight this. You’re out of your depth. Drop. the. case.”

Doyle sat back. His face shifted from puzzlement to outright incredulity. A chuckle bubbled in his chest and then was quickly joined by others, turning into a throaty laugh. Beside him, Bodie’s lips quirked into his sarcastic smile, staring at Marley. “I don’t remember ordering you a whisky,” Doyle said, still laughing. “Do you really expect us to believe that? Jadis paints his dog green and, apart from being animal cruelty; I don’t see what makes it… what? It's from the old tales? What does that mean?”

Lip trembling, Marley said, “But… but why would I lie to you? Especially as it sounds as ridiculous as this?”

“Your mother didn’t give you enough attention as a child?” Bodie asked sweetly.

Dipper growled.

“Then who killed Delphi, Marley? You said it wasn’t Jadis. Who did that?” Doyle asked.

“I can’t tell you! Not here!”

“Back to HQ?” Bodie hissed in Doyle’s ear. Doyle nodded. Together, they stood and both took one arm.

Marley stared at them, “Is it safe?”

“You’ll be under the protection of one Mr George Cowley,” Bodie said, grinning sarcastically.

Both of them were surprised by the sudden pallor of the informer.

 

Moving quickly, Bodie and Doyle towed Marley back towards Bodie’s car. The informant was deathly pale and shaking badly, but he made no move to resist. His dogs trotted obediently behind them with their tails in the air. A couple of people gave them concerned glances, but the agents just shot them disarming grins. When a mother, balancing one pink-wrapped toddler on her hip and holding onto the hand of another, approached them with concern it was Marley himself reassured her that he ‘was just feeling faint’. She nodded curtly, looked up at the blackening clouds and hurried the wailing children towards the nearest café.

Bodie glanced up, “Looks like rain.”

“It’s been raining for the last couple of weeks,” Doyle replied sourly, “C’mon, Marley. The car’s not far.”

Marley swallowed and nodded, allowing himself to be pulled along. “Mr Doyle –“

Dipper halted abruptly, quivering. The dog padded around the trio and sniffed the air. A low growl issued from his throat and was echoed by Doyle’s namesake. The two dogs stood together, their snarls getting louder. They were on point, intensely focused on the crowd. All three turned to look, but neither of the agents could see what the dogs were afraid of.

Bodie’s hand crept towards his gun. “Trouble?” he murmured.

“I think so,” Doyle said. He tapped Marley on the arm, “Come on, I think we should –“

His voice was suddenly cut off as Marley swung around and grabbed Doyle’s shoulders. Marley’s eyes were wide and frantic, his hat askew. “You know the market where you first met me?”

“Uh, yeah, Marley what’s…?”

“There’s a woman there, her name is Violette Ruggeri.” His palms were so slick with sweat that they were staining two large handprints on Doyle’s grey jumper, “You have to speak to her. About your case. About your friend. About me.”

Bodie moved, seeing Doyle’s cheek twitch as the informer’s grip tightened. “Marley, we have to go.”

The words tumbled faster, Marley ignoring Bodie completely, “She’ll ask you if you want your fortune told, tell her to take out the Hanged Man.”

“Marley…” Doyle’s voice was calm and very level like he was speaking to someone who was unstable and carrying a weapon. Spittle was bubbling in the corner of Marley’s mouth and he wasn’t taking his gaze off of Doyle’s face.

“Promise me!”

“OK, Marley. You can let me go now,” Doyle said, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“Promise!”

Doyle could feel bruises forming under the informant’s grip. There was something in Marley’s eyes which was chilling him to the core; he had never known Marley to act like this during the nine years that he’d known the man. “I promise,” Doyle said soothingly, “promise.” He caught Bodie’s eye; they needed to get Marley back to HQ, now.

Marley suddenly blinked owlishly, his face losing the desperate look. Doyle frowned and then reached out to steady Marley as he staggered. “Marley… you OK?” he asked. The informant looked up and regarded Doyle with a long, blank stare.

Then his hands fastened around Doyle’s throat.

Automatically, Doyle struck out. His foot connected with Marley’s shin with a sickening crack. Marley’s grip didn’t loosen. Veins stood out like cords on his neck. The stink of sweat clogged up Doyle’s nose, pain exploding in his throat. Hate and fear were clear in Marley’s expression. Marley wasn’t pressing on his windpipe, but he was starting to get his fingers into the right position. The informant was a big man; if he really wanted to, Marley could crush Doyle’s larynx like a matchstick model.

Bodie didn’t waste a second. He dived in, seizing Marley and ripping him off of his partner. Doyle sagged against the metal railing, gulping air and trying to force his wavering vision to focus. Marley let out a frenzied scream and swung his arm towards Bodie just as both of the dogs leapt for the agent. Bodie’s gasp of pain shocked Doyle back into action. Yelling, he struck out with his leg, catching Dipper under the jaw. Doyle’s namesake retreated, teeth bared. Doyle then turned to go to his partner’s aid when Marley’s shoulder caught him as he slashed past the agent. Doyle turned to follow Marley’s course, his fists raised and ready to defend himself and his partner, then realised with horror just where Marley was heading –

Marley hit the railing without stopping or even appearing to see it. His upper body twisted and spun across the barrier and then the rest of his body flipped over. He had enough time to shriek before he hit the water. The murky river closed over Marley’s head, just as the two sleek dogs streamed after him. They clambered through the railing gap and then disappeared into the rapids.

None of them resurfaced.

 Bodie and Doyle sprinted towards the railing and leant over, panting. “Can he swim?” Bodie snapped, blood dripping from four long scratches across his cheek.

Doyle shook his head, “He doesn’t look like he’s even trying to.” He began to strip off his jumper, but Bodie grabbed his partner and hauled him away from the railings.

“Don’t you dare dive in after him,” he growled, “You’ll just get pulled under and drown.”

Doyle gaped wordlessly at him for a moment but, before he could muster up a sharp retort, a blue-shirted policeman elbowed him aside, blowing a whistle like his life depended on it. “’Ere, you! Weren’t trying to jump in after that fellow, were you? The rapids down there are pretty fierce and, unless you’re Olympic standard, the MPU would ‘ave an ‘ell of a job getting you both out!” Doyle glared at the man but was suddenly stopped from exploding in the policeman’s face by the arrival of the man’s colleagues.

Heavy hands fell on the agents’ shoulders and they groaned in unison. “Well, well, well… what happened here, then?”

****

“You alright?” Bodie asked, an hour later.

The police had insisted on taking them both back to the station even after the pair had flashed their CI5 I.D cards and explained the situation. Even the protestations from several bystanders who sworn that the two men had been the victim of an unprovoked attack hadn’t deterred these officers from their duty. Bodie and Doyle had been shoved into two holding cells and told to wait while the officers had checked their claims. Bodie had been growing increasingly impatient and worried about Doyle’s simmering temper: twice he’d had to be discreetly restrained from tackling their arresting officer.

The worst part was when the police had separated them. Bodie had sat with his ear to the wall, listening to his partner’s indignant protests getting louder. Doyle’s Derby accent had been getting thicker and thicker and Bodie had been waiting for the inevitable snap. Cowley would kill them both if Doyle managed to get himself arrested for attacking a police officer.

Luckily, orders from above had negotiated their release before Volcano Doyle had erupted. As soon as he was told, Bodie had marched into the adjoining cell, snatched a handful of Doyle’s shirt, and hauled him out of the station before anything valuable got broken.

Now Doyle was sitting blankly in the passenger seat of Bodie’s Capri, chewing on a hangnail. Bodie could feel his partner’s empty fury and confusion battering him in dark waves, but he seemed beyond the point of lashing out.

“Hey, Doyle!”

Doyle started. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Are you OK?”

He blinked and managed to muster up a weak smile, “Yeah, yeah. I’m just a bit… I’m OK.” Green eyes locked on blue. “How’s the face?”

Bodie settled himself in the car and rubbed at the smarting scratches. “Not very pretty,” he answered mournfully.

Doyle reached over and patted his shoulder, “Never mind. Probably adds to your fearsome reputation.”

“Never mind? Never mind?! I already have a reputation of tall, dark and beautiful! It spoils my good looks, Doyle.”

“Oh stop whining. You look better by candlelight anyway.” He flushed, the admission having just slipped out. Bodie gave him an odd look, half inordinately satisfied and half embarrassed. Doyle ducked his head and quickly said to cover his awkwardness, “What happened with Marley was weird.”

Disturbing, more like, Bodie thought, but he replied, “What made him go berserk?”

“Drugs.” Of course, that was ex-copper Doyle’s contribution. “I’ve seen people rip their own skin off trying to get at the spiders.” He shuddered, “Hate drugs.”

“He knew it was going to happen,” Bodie said as he started the engine, “What did he say to you?”

Doyle frowned. One hand crept to his curls. “We have to go speak to a woman called Violette Ruggeri. Tell her to take out the Hanged Man. What’s the Hanged Man?”

“It’s a tarot card, I think.” Bodie carefully negotiated a busy junction. The rain had started again, splattering the windscreen with huge, gleaming drops. “Represents… represents… uh, sacrifice or letting go.”

Doyle jerked his head in acknowledgement, “Do you think it means anything? I didn’t think Marley believed in all that rot.”

Lightly, Bodie replied, “I dunno, I believed in it myself for a time.”

“You’re kidding me.” Doyle pushed himself up in his seat. “You are kidding me, right?”

Bodie shook his head, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. “When you’re a kid in Africa and some of the voodoo is weirdly accurate… well, you start to wonder don’t you?”

Doyle snorted, “I only saw people getting conned out of their money. They’re all the same; tall, dark handsome stranger. Mum –“ he lapsed into sudden silence. “Forget it,” he added shortly.

Bodie glanced over. Conversations about the Doyle family were strictly off-limits; in the same way, that he jealously guarded his life before Africa. He had gathered that Doyle had three sisters; he visited the family at Christmas, but always came back in, if not a filthy, but a sombre mood. He had a crowd of nephews and nieces, most of whom seemed very excited about their ‘Uncle Copper Ray’ (Bodie had seen the thank you notes after birthdays and Christmas), so all normal there.

Now the black cloud was gathering in again. Bodie searched through his repertoire for something to make his partner forget about the last conversion.

He found nothing.

Luckily, at that moment, the R/T sang out. Doyle leant forward and snatched it up. “4.5.”

“What the hell happened?” Cowley’s dulcet tones rattled the windows.

Doyle briefly closed his eyes and replied, “We were talking to Marley, sir. Then he went crazy and attacked us.”

“Attacked you?” Cowley sounded – odd.

“Yeah, his gaze went all blank and then he tried to shove my windpipe through my spine,” he glanced over at Bodie, “You should see the mess he made of Bodie’s face.”

“Are either of you badly hurt?”

“No, sir. Just a bit sore, sir. He’s dead, sir.”

“Dead?”

“He took a running jump into the river, sir,” Doyle managed to say it without his voice faltering. “Like I said, he went crazy.”

“Right, did Marley have any information for you?” Cowley’s voice was garbled with static and Doyle had to pause a moment to rearrange all the syllables in the right place.

“Yeah, he said that he was almost certain that Jadis killed Hume. Even said he saw Jadis’ dog,” Doyle bit his lip, clearly wondering how to phrase the next bit. “You’re not going to like this,” he began slowly, “But he said it was green and as big as – as –“

“Him and built like a brick shithouse,” Bodie supplied helpfully, strangely lifted by Doyle’s ‘I’m screwed’ expression.

 

Cowley was frozen. His fingers were crushing the fountain pen in his hand, ink beginning the squirt coldly down his palm as he listened to Doyle relaying Marley’s words. “Is he usually trustworthy?” he managed without his voice trembling.

“Yeah. A bit flamboyant and overdramatic, but he was scared, sir. Really scared. We were taking him into protective custody.” There was an exchange between the two and then Doyle spoke again, “Marley did say something interesting, though. He wasn’t worried about Jadis attacking him. He said that someone else had visited him – killed one of his dogs.”

“Who?” Somehow, in his mind, Cowley thought that he already knew.

“We don’t know. We’re going to see one of Marley’s contacts about it. A woman called Violette Ruggeri.” The chief of CI5 closed his eyes. He felt a little sick. He knew that name, but not the woman’s face. It was one of the names jotted down in the ledger that was sealed away in his private safe. The ledger that he had been reluctantly keeping for almost forty years and had almost thought was now surplus.

He listened as Doyle reeled off the address and then waited as he signed off and the radio lapsed into silence. Automatically, he turned for the phone and picked it up, weighing the smooth plastic in his hand. His fingers, blackened and stained from the ruined pen which was now languishing in the bin, hovered over the dial.

No, he thought, no. Not until I’m sure.

***

The rain fell in sheets and the marketplace was still busy. Bodie and Doyle shouldered their way through the crowd: spicy scents curled in the air and the cry of vendors echoed. For a moment, Bodie thought he was in a ‘60s _Sinbad_ film or even back in Africa – but it was only fleetingly as another blast of rain sliced across his neck.

They kept close and didn’t speak; Doyle was radiating a dark vehemence and Bodie, knowing his partner’s moods, wasn’t trying to calm him. Now was not the time, and Doyle would resent Bodie for calling out his mood in the middle of the street – if Doyle needed to talk he would.

“There,” Doyle said and jabbed his finger accusingly, “The purple tent.”

Bodie squinted. “Oh, very nice,” he warbled in a falsetto, “Exactly as I imagined it. Do you know her?”

Doyle shrugged. “I’ve seen her around when this was my beat.” He saw Bodie’s raised eyebrows and added, “I don’t know her. We’ve spoken a couple of times, but she’s never caused any problems except giving people false hope.” His expression clearly stated his feelings about this, “Come on then.” Shrugging his shoulders against the storm, Doyle began to lead his partner towards the flapping indigo tepee. Bodie sighed after him, feeling slightly guilty for enjoying the tight jeans while Doyle was in his filthy mood. He looked good…

Doyle glanced over his shoulder, “You coming? She can’t turn you into a frog or anything.”

“Yeah,” Bodie muttered under his breath, “And if she does there’s a serious lack of handsome princes willing to kiss me.”

But he made sure that Doyle couldn’t hear him.

 

They ducked through the sodden material, trying to rub the rain out of their hair. A musty smell emanated from somewhere nearby and mixed with the brambly scent coming from two short, fat candles. The tent was dimly lit and it took Bodie a moment to realise that the glittering form lying provocatively along a cushioned bench was a woman. She pushed herself up onto her elbow and regarded them through smouldering eyes. There was so much make-up on her face that Bodie couldn’t see how she could hold her head up. “Hello, my beauties. Come to have your fortune told?” The voice was perfect; the right balance between smoky and singsong. Her accent sounded foreign and Bodie was guessing Italian. 

Ignoring Doyle as he opened his mouth to snap something uncharitable, Bodie answered, “Yeah, if you’ve got the inclination, sweetheart.”

She unfolded herself from the bench and pulled a gauzy red shawl around her shoulders. She looked quite young, but both men had learnt how to guess someone’s age. The woman seemed older than them, in her late thirties perhaps? “Sit down, sirs.” Bodie did so, swinging himself into the chair with an audible grunt of satisfaction, leaving Doyle to perch himself on the stool. The woman reached forward and lit another candle. She glanced up and started, but without fear. A crimson smile tugged at her face, “its Constable Doyle isn’t it? It’s been a long time.”

“Hello, Violette.” Doyle sounded uncomfortable.

“I expect that this isn’t your beat anymore. Not after, what? Six, seven years?” Violette began to shuffle a pack of gold cards. “Still a policeman?”

“Not quite.”

“Aha. No need to be so cagey, Constable.” She finished laying out the cards and leant towards Bodie. “Is this your partner?”

“Yeah,” Doyle said, “That’s Bodie.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bodie had turned on his charm and extended his hand. The woman shook it. Static electricity jumped between them and Bodie recoiled, massaging his hand.

“I’m so sorry. It’s my jewellery.” Violette offered her hand again. Silvery rings pressed coolly against Bodie’s fingers and the tent was filled with the soft jingle of her bracelets.

Violette smiled, tilted her head towards Doyle and then asked conspiratorially, “Has his temper improved much? When I knew him, Constable Doyle was still a hot-headed innocent. Good looking lad, though and Constable Parker wasn’t bad either.”

Doyle coughed, flushing slightly. Bodie grinned. He couldn’t imagine Doyle as ever having been innocent. “No, it’s worse.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, _mate_.”

There was a sudden squealing then something small and sleek pressed itself against Doyle’s ankle. He looked down to see a small golden brown stoat dragging on his jeans. It looked up at him with the kind of soulful expression that he associated with dogs begging for a biscuit. A second one writhed out from under the table and began to climb up the stool and up Doyle’s back. Doyle sat very still, letting it clamber up to his shoulder where it curled up with a definitive determination. The first stoat abandoned Doyle’s ankles and instead attempted to beg a treat from Bodie. Bodie looked at it disdainfully.

“Who are these, then?” Doyle inquired, trying not to jiggle his shoulder too much. The stoat on his shoulder yawned widely as though trying to determine if his back would be a good place to sleep.

“Castor and Pollux,” Violette answered as she pulled a velvet cover off of a gleaming crystal ball. “Now, who’s first? How about you, Mr Bodie?”

Doyle interrupted her, “Actually…” He licked his lips as he assembled the sentence in his head then said, “We’ve come to talk to you about Marley. You remember him?”

Violette didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, I remember him.”

“He’s dead.” Doyle paused, aware that he’d been too abrupt and added, “I’m sorry. I know he was fond of you.”

She looked away and toyed with one of the tassels on the tablecloth. Both men waited, half expecting her to burst into tears, but Violette seemed too tense now to cry. Face rigid, she asked, “How?”

“He drowned.”

Her eyes widened, “Drowned?”

“He jumped into the river,” Bodie answered, “After attacking us.” he gestured to the scratches across his cheek. “Marley tried to kill Doyle.”

Violette stared at them. “Marley wouldn’t have hurt a fly! You can back me up on this, Constable.”

Doyle nodded, biting his thumb. “We think he may have been drugged. We tried to stop him, but…” he trailed off, “Sorry, Violette.”

Violette nodded, “What about his dogs?” She clicked her fingers under the table and the stoat at Bodie’s ankle fled back to her. The one on Doyle’s shoulder didn’t seem inclined to move. Sighing, she rose from her seat and walked over to scoop it off. “Come on, Pollux.”

As her fingers made contact with the skin of Doyle’s neck, he felt a sudden sting. The candlelight seemed to waver for the briefest second and then the sensation was gone. He blinked and shook his head, hand creeping to his neck. Had Violette…?

No. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary. He managed to pull his attention back to Bodie and Violette. Bodie had explained about Marley’s dogs and was now filling Violette in about Hume’s death.

“That’s horrible,” Violette said as she placed the stoat on the ground. Hands shaking a little, she reached under the table and pulled out a battered cigarette packet. She politely offered it to the duo before lighting one up. “I don’t know how I can help you,” she began, “But… did Marley say anything before he – before he died?”

Doyle nodded. “He said that if you offered to tell our fortune that you had to take out the… the Hanged Man?”

The effect was electric. Violette jerked upright, staring at them. Ash dribbled from her cigarette, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. Her breathing quickened and her gaze flitted between the pair. “Are you sure?” she asked in a low voice. “Is that what he said?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Doyle replied sharply, “What does it mean, Violette?” Violette didn’t answer. “What does it mean? I’m not in the mood for cryptic clues, so you better tell us.”

The words were distant. “You can’t be,” Violette murmured, “I would’ve known…”

“Known what?” Bodie asked.

Violette looked up. Bodie was suddenly skewered by a thousand kilowatt diamond gaze.

“Magic. Neither of you could be magic.”

***

“What the hell…?” Doyle dragged a hand through his hair, colour rising in his cheeks. “Jesus, not you too.”

“Ray…” Bodie muttered warningly.

“First Marley and then you,” Doyle was flying now, lashing out with his words, “You keep feeding us this rubbish. What the hell is really going on?” Bodie winced. That had been the last straw and now Doyle’s frustration – dammed up since Marley’s bizarre proclamation – had burst open. “Violette, I know your job is about fooling people, but really? Marley is dead! And Hume! I just want to know what’s going on!”

“Maybe if you calmed down,” Violette replied coldly, “I’d explain.”

Bodie laid a soothing hand on Doyle’s arm. “Hey… hey, sunshine. No need to yell at the lovely lady. C’mon, son, let’s hear her out, alright?” The rain had slowed outside and the candles burned with a much steadier light. Doyle nodded and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Sorry. ‘m a bit… tense.”

The light caught his face oddly, the lump under his eye pronounced. He suddenly looked very vulnerable to Bodie. Resisting the urge to kiss it (whatever ‘it’ was) better, Bodie inclined his head towards Violette ruefully.

Violette accepted Doyle’s apology with a fair amount of grace. “OK, forget about the magic if you want, I’ll give you some information. For Marley’s sake, and your friend’s. But I warn you, getting involved with Jadis now is going to be dangerous.”

“We know that he has some kind of dog…” Bodie helpfully volunteered.

Violette flicked the velvet back over the crystal ball, tapping her painted nails against the glass. “Jadis is not stable. In fact, he is so far from stable that he’s a house of cards. He is violent and temperamental, he’s not more than a kid and he acts like it. Jadis has a massive following and it’s mostly because of fear. But he’s even more dangerous than before because there’s going to be a war – a turf war? I think that’s what you call it.”

“Between who?” Doyle asked; his eyes alight as he realised that they were getting somewhere.

“Jadis and a man named Kane. Adam Kane. There’s a family relation in there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is. Kane’s… smart – smart in a way that Jadis can never be. Don’t be fooled by his appearance, Kane can look inside your head and tear you to pieces.” Violette sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Your friend was killed because he witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He was killed, I think because he saw Jadis do magic.”

“Magic? Hume said a weapon.” Bodie said, glancing at Doyle.

Reaching for another cigarette, Violette quirked an eyebrow up at them, “You said you weren’t police. What are you?”

Seeing no reason to lie, Doyle reached inside his coat and dragged out his I.D. Flipping it open, he said, “CI5.”

Like Marley, Violette’s head tilted sharply up. “CI5?” she asked, “Then your boss is George Cowley.”

“Yeah, you know ‘im?” Doyle asked with ironic innocence as he stowed the I.D safely away.

“Not him, I know the family name.” Violette started playing with the cards idly. Not a twitch was visible on her face. One of the candles, as if sensing that it was a dramatically appropriate moment, guttered out and invited in the darkness.

Frowning, not sure why he suddenly felt so unbalanced, Doyle asked, “What do you mean?”

Spreading the cards with one hand and sucking down a lungful of smoke using her other, Violette said with icy bitterness, “The Cowleys, the Quinceys, the Iveses… old families; the last ‘Guards’. They were supposed to protect the normals from the magic users. Massacre them, more like.” The blue smoke curled about her head like a dragon’s vengeance and filled the tent with a sour odour. “Listen, I’d go back to your boss and demand an explanation. No doubt he knows who you’re up against and he knows the weapon.”

“Listen, do you have anything solid on Jadis or this Kane for that matter?” Bodie asked between clenched teeth.

Violette stared at him through the plume of smoke, her gaze steady. Slowly, she stubbed out the cigarette and leant forward. “I know that one of them, I think it’s Kane, uses these docks to ship his drugs. I expect that will be of interest to you, Doyle.” She groped under the table and brought out an orange spiral-bound notebook that certainly didn’t fit with the rest of the tent’s aesthetic. Scribbling an address, she tore the page out with some force and then handed it to Doyle. “I won’t do business with your boss, but I will help you… just be careful. I like you, Doyle and I don’t want to read about your demise in tomorrow’s paper.”

It was almost a vote of confidence.

“Er, thanks,” Doyle mumbled, not sure exactly what the situation merited. “Thanks for your help, Violette.” He nodded at Bodie and they rose to leave.

“Wait!”

They stopped. Violette had pulled one card from the pack and was holding it up, facing towards her.

“I’m sorry about this, Doyle, but it has to be done. You two keep your mouths shut about magic and who gave you the information to anyone who isn’t your boss or I’ll maybe drop him a line.”

“A line?” Bodie said suspiciously, eying the woman sitting, quite composedly, on the opposite side of the tent. “A line about what?”

The card slid across the table. Bodie, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, bent over to see it. Doyle leant over as well, shoving the address in his pocket. The card was smooth, but clearly well used as the edges were furry and had the Roman numerals VI written at the top. Underneath were two people, both in a state of undress.

In bold text were the words THE LOVERS.

Bodie’s poker face and Doyle’s forced sniff of indignation were equally telling.

“You think we’re queer, do you, sweetheart?” Bodie drawled.

“23rd June 1981.” Each word was laid down as if it were a slab of marble, heavy, echoing. “You were in a flat with a green carpet. You didn’t even get to bed.” Violette wiped a smudge of lipstick off of her chin. “I don’t have the ability to tell the future, you know. I can see your pasts and I have to say, the rumours that men only think about sex seem to be true. One of the first things I picked out.”

There was a shocked silence. Another candle went out, but damply this time.

“This – this is blackmail,” Doyle growled. “Violette –“

“No,” she replied coolly, “This is insurance. Just in case anybody wants to bump me off like they did poor Marley. This way, I won’t tell anyone about your… sexual preferences and you won’t go blabbing about magic. Clear?”

Bodie and Doyle glanced at each other. Bodie lifted his eyebrow and Doyle shook his head. Pursing his lips indignantly, he sighed, “Crystal.”

***

“Magic?” Cowley couldn’t have sounded more incredulous if he tried. He removed his glasses and let them dangled from his hand.

Doyle shifted uncomfortably, “That’s what Violette said. And, sir, she said that you’d know about it.”

“Oh really?” Cowley shifted a few papers on his desk. “And you believed her?”

“We’re only reporting what she said,” Bodie replied levelly. The scratches scored into his cheek were an angry red and Cowley found his own face starting to ache in sympathy. “Violette seemed to believe it and Marley jumped into a river for no apparent reason. What if it’s a code for something?”

Cowley looked up, his eyes narrowed. “A code?”

“Yeah,” Doyle pursed his lips and nodded over at Bodie, “What if it’s a code for a group – we know that at least one of the gangs are selling drugs! Change your mind; make you think that you have powers. I’ve seen it before, sir; when I was with the drug squad. People do crazy things when they think they can do anything.”

Cowley put his glasses back on, displacement activity that he hoped that his agents wouldn’t pick up on. “Good,” he said and smiled.

Perhaps he had been wrong all this time, but somewhere in the depths of his mind, there was a little cynical voice that was whispering that nothing was ever that easy.

“We got names as well,” Bodie said with an answering grin. Digging an elbow in Doyle’s ribs, he continued, “Sunshine was ever so charming.”

“Thanks a lot, _Bo-die_.” Doyle reached into his pocket and flipped out a smudged tear of paper. It fluttered onto Cowley’s desk. “Violette gave us an address, but she said she didn’t know who used it. It’s a drugs drop. She thinks it’s a guy called Kane.”

And there it was. Confirmation of what he had feared. Doyle kept talking, apparently unaware of Cowley’s twisting gut and pounding head. The words were like tiny shards of ice – painful, cold and difficult to spot as they melted away.

Kane. Adam Kane.

He was here in London and, even worse, he’d been operating long enough to have set up a drug ring. How many times had Kane used it? How many people…

And you thought you were good at the triple think did you, George? Thought you knew what was going on? Was it denial? Or just simple ignorance?

“Sir?”

Both Bodie and Doyle were watching him with guarded concern.

“Aye?” Cowley blinked and then felt the familiar charade slide over him, “Well, what are you still doing here? Get over there and stake it out!”

“Yes, sir, running all the way, sir,” they chorused and then Doyle led the way to the door. Cowley saw them exchange glances and could imagine the telepathic conversation they would be having with just their expressions.

As Doyle placed his hand on the door handle, Cowley barked, “Do not move in. Stake it out only. No matter what happens, I don’t want you to go any closer than you have to.”

Bodie tilted his head. “Would you mind telling us why, sir?” There was ice in his words and Doyle’s lips pursed expectantly.

Cowley expelled one long breath, “its need to know.”

“Bullshit.”

“Language, Doyle!”

Doyle’s tone was cutting. “Sorry, sir. That’s bullock manure, sir.”

Despite himself, Bodie snorted with appreciation. Doyle was radiating fury. Hands on hips, jaw jutting, he was the very picture of righteous indignation in tight jeans. Directing an accusing finger at his boss, Doyle went on, “Listen, sir, this is all wrong. What’s going on? Who’s Kane?”

“I said, 4.5, it is need to know. Kane is dangerous. You are not to split up or move in. Understand?” A flash of inspiration struck Cowley, “And if either of you disobey, I’ll make sure that you spend the rest of your life watching Russian trawlers in the Outer Hebrides!”

Neither of his agents answered.

***

The room was stuffy and warm with two bodies in it. Doyle was hunched over the binoculars and Bodie was stretched out on the sagging mattress in the middle of the floor. The conversation had petered off into a sphere of gentle noises. Doyle was angry, Bodie knew, but he was making an effort to not show it. They’d spent around twenty minutes chatting about trivial things interspersed with comments about the people passing by. Now Bodie was admiring the view; Doyle had abandoned the jumper finally, and the combination of the gentle light and angle that the binoculars forced him into was very flattering.

At least from where Bodie was lying. He was almost hypnotised by the taut blueness hovering enticingly in front of him. The tight shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist and twisted across Doyle’s back, giving Bodie a tantalising glimpse of the lean muscles underneath. The low sunlight streaming through the window bronzed the messy halo and Bodie bit his lip, feeling his trousers start to tent. Gaze glazing, he started wondering whether the cold tap would be enough.

A scrunched-up newspaper hit him square in the face, quickly bringing him back to reality. “Hey!”

Doyle grinned, eyes sparkling, “Oops, sorry. I was aiming for the top of your head. I was wanting to –” he mimed the action, twisting his expression into an exaggerated grimace of concentration.

“Your aim needs work.” Bodie brushed the paper aside and levered himself off of the mattress. “Maybe I should tell Cowley that you need a refresher course with Macklin.”  

“Oh really?” Doyle folded his arms, head tilted defiantly. “I reckon I could take you.”

Bodie waggled his finger mock-seriously, “Ah now, Raymond, cockiness will get you nowhere.” He emphasised the first part of the word.

Doyle said, “Cocky, eh? I don’t think I’m the one who’s cocky, mate,” and looked pointedly at Bodie’s crotch.

Blushing slightly, Bodie managed to adopt an offended tone, “I am shocked and disgusted that you would think so lowly of me –“

“Berk.”

“But I insist that your virtue is safe from me,” Bodie finished, appearing not to have heard. Doyle raised his eyebrows.

“Bit late for that, innit?” he countered easily, “Took my virtue years ago.”

Leering with misty remembrance, Bodie replied, “Yeah, that was a good night.”

There was a long pause before Doyle turned away. “There’s nothing much happening over at the docks.”

“So we have time,” Bodie said, slightly confused by Doyle’s sudden chilliness.

“We’re working, Bodie. Remember? We still have a job to do,” Doyle rubbed his eyes and continued wearily, “Hume _died_ this morning. So did Marley. Cowley’s not telling us the whole story and Violette’s threatening blackmail. I’m sorry. I just –“ he slumped against the wall and shook his head. “I’ve had barely any sleep and the whole case is getting on my nerves.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep then?” Bodie asked. He heaved himself off of the mattress and gestured grandiosely at it. “I’ll take over.”

Doyle smiled wanly and turned back to the binoculars. “I might take you up on that.”

Bodie grinned and walked up to behind Doyle. Slowly, he slid his arms around Doyle’s waist, enjoying the warmth and the soft flutter of his heart rate. Doyle leant into the embrace and briefly closed his eyes.

“How’s that?” Bodie nestled his chin into Doyle’s hair, rubbing it back and forth.

“Don’t tempt me, Bodie.” The smile was evident in his words.

“Alright, alright. Let me look through the binoculars.”

“OK,” Doyle stepped away and flopped down onto the mattress.

Squinting, Bodie swung the binoculars around to check the dockyard. It seemed deserted.

“Hey,” he said, “Why don’t we do a little snooping?”

“What do you mean?” Doyle asked, his arms flung up over his eyes, sleeve hiding his expression. He didn’t move from his supine position.

“We’re not going to discover anything just sitting here. At least, nothing that we don’t already know –“

Doyle grunted, “Which is precious little.”

“Right. So…”

“What are you suggesting, Bodie?” Doyle sounded weary.

Bodie didn’t turn away from the binoculars. A small grin was forming on his lips and his eyebrow quirked mischievously. “You stay here while I go in and check it out.”

The heat behind Doyle’s reply was surprising. “No!”

“No? Why not?”

“One: you aren’t going in alone. I’m your partner. I back you up. Two: Cowley said to stick together and to not go in. Three: -“

“Come on, Doyle! Usually, you’re the one who wants to jump in with both feet!”

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Doyle snarled, “Isn’t that what you said?”

Bodie backed off, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. “I still think –“

“OK.”

“What?”

Doyle hung his head and rubbed his eyes. “I said OK. I’m not going to stop you, am I? I might as well try to keep you out of trouble.” There was a twinkle in his eye despite his defeated attitude.

Bodie grinned and bounded over to clap his partner on the back. “Now, sunshine, I’m sure I’m the one who has to keep you out of trouble.”

***

The greasy smell of tarpaulin and rain clogged up Doyle’s nostrils. Keeping low, he and Bodie crept along the dock with their guns clenched in their fists. Long chains hung in the hut doorways, gleaming. They clinked softly in the wind and set Doyle’s teeth on edge.

The dockside was long, the stone cracked and uniformly dotted with metal rings set deep into the wall. There were four boats moored at the edge, their shape barely discernible in the dull moonlight. All of them were squat and sullen, giving off a fishy stench. The huts had been hastily repaired and they were small enough for the agents to explore fully in a matter of minutes, torches flickering and revealing only brushed floors and boxes of carefully maintained tools.

Bodie tapped Doyle on the arm and whispered, “On the boats, do you think?”

“Dunno,” Doyle murmured back, “But I don’t like this.”

“I know what you mean. It just feels too easy.”

“Yeah. Check-in every ten minutes?” Doyle shoved the torch back into his pocket and instead drew out his R/T. He pressed the button and nodded when Bodie’s uttered a burst of harsh static. “Which one do you want?”

Directing his torch beam at the brass nameplate, Bodie grinned, “I’ll take the _Salt Virgin_.”

“Berk. You are kidding me, aren’t you?” Doyle peered where Bodie had indicated and answered himself, “You’re not. Fine, I’ll take… err, the _Katherine_. Check-in when you’re done.”

“OK.”

Doyle concentrated on listening as he approached the boat. Tiny hairs were dancing along the back of his neck and even though he and Bodie seemed to be the only people here, Doyle couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Placing his feet carefully as to not slip off the knife-sharp edge of the dock and into the fathomless river below, he also couldn’t get rid of the image of Marley hurling himself over the railing and into this very same waterway. Taking a breath, he gingerly bridged the gap between solid land and the treacherous darkness of the boat.

He hated boats. Doyle could get seasick on a wet pavement. Little dinghies, fine. Boats with a roof were not his forte. He’d rather leave those to Bodie.

Every step made the boat wobble alarmingly. Doyle eased his way along the narrow corridor, jabbing open the doors to reveal a bare bedroom with an unmade bunk, a box filled with rotting food and a faded picture of a brunette pinned to the wall. Katherine, he supposed absently. A thorough search revealed nothing of note except a thin film of dust. Backing out, from there, Doyle swung his torch beam around the centre room of the boat. A discolouration caught his eye and, frowning, he knelt by the wooden table which was bolted to the floor. His questing fingers found something else; what felt like a small packet taped to the leg. A slow smile spread across the agent’s face. “Jackpot.”

The R/T beeped suddenly. Not removing his hand from the package, Doyle dropped his other hand into his pocket and yanked it out. “4.5.”

“I’ve found something,” Bodie’s voice was darkly gleeful.

“Is it a packet taped to something?”

“Yeah, how did –?”

“’Cause I’ve got one here as well. Looks like drugs,” as Doyle spoke, he tore the tape from the wood, dropping the package on the floor. It slid slightly and was caught up on a splinter, powder spilling through the rip. Cautiously, Doyle dipped his little finger in it and sniffed. Remembering Marley, he didn’t taste it. Leave that to Malone’s boys, he thought. Lifting the R/T to his lips, he said, “Check-in in ten minutes, OK?”

However, as he began to feel around in the dark, torch beam bobbing wildly, the boat suddenly rocked.

Doyle’s hand moved before his brain had registered the implications of that movement. As his fingers closed over his weapon, he saw a silhouette plant its feet and take a swing. Again his body reacted faster than he could think and he rolled out of the way. With the table between him and his attacker, he pulled his gun. “Freeze!”

The shadow did so, raising its hands to shoulder level. Doyle advanced, driving it around the table and away from the door. “You’re under arrest,” Doyle growled, “Under suspicion of –“

Far too late, he saw the second figure appear in the doorway.

 

Pain. Blinding light.

Doyle groaned and stirred. He regretted it immediately as he was suddenly yanked along the floor, a hand clamping over his mouth. Automatically he tried to fight, but his chin was pushed up by a deadly cold bar.

A gun.

Doyle stilled, waiting. He could hear his captors having an argument, but his ears didn’t seem to be working properly. Swallowing down bile, Doyle concentrated on the grip pinning him down. There had to be a way for him to break free. He shifted and the grip tightened, the gun shoved harder into his chin. His head was pounding and his vision narrow, so he reluctantly put that plan into the ‘unusable’ pile.

“Go deal with the other one,” he heard the one restraining him snap. Doyle’s eyes widened, well, the one that didn’t feel swollen shut. He knew that voice! There was a dark quality to it that made him feel nervous and he couldn’t quite remember why. The shadow nodded once, thumbed back the trigger of his gun and disappeared outside.

A burst of energy born of fury exploded in Doyle’s limbs. One arm flashed up and grabbed the barrel, shoving it aside. The hand over his mouth slipped and he heard a gasp of “Kak!” Jabbing his elbow into his captor’s solar plexus, he launched himself forwards towards the door after the man who was going to hurt Bodie. 

He didn’t get very far. He may have succeeded in pushing the gun away, but Doyle hadn’t managed to untangle himself from his captor’s arm. An iron pressure tightened around his throat and Doyle choked, scrabbling helplessly at the arm. Lights flashed in his vision, a red glow sapping the strength from his limbs. He sagged for the second time and felt the cold of the gun barrel rammed against his temple.

“We really need to stop meeting like this.” The heavily accented words were breathed into his ear.

In seconds, Doyle was back in the cellar of a grand house with only a disposable lighter in his pocket and this man’s punches lingering in his gut. He couldn’t suppress a shudder of alarm, pulse pounding in his head.

 “It’s a small world isn’t it, Mr Hard Man?” Parker drawled.

 

Bodie was industrially stripping the tape off a large brown package when he suddenly felt the boat rock violently. He wasn’t expecting the movement and was thrown against the bunk, bruising his shoulder. “What the –“

His training kicked his brain into gear. Drawing his gun with a quicksilver hand, Bodie leapt to his feet and charged toward the deck of the Salt Virgin. A nameless panic was coursing through his veins, gold-and-red adrenaline forcing his heart to blur with speed.

He burst out into the night, his gun raised. Vision blotting even with the slight difference in light, it took Bodie a moment to realise his predicament.

The boat was drifting, being drawn slowly away from the dock and down the river. There was a silky slither as the rope that had previously been mooring the boat lost its grip on the stone and fell into the river. The gap was widening, almost two metres now, and Bodie cast his gaze around for his partner.

A patch of blackness, deeper than the night, caught his eye. He squinted and horror gripped him. There were two figures moving swiftly towards the huts and over the shoulder of the taller one was a bundle that didn’t require much imagination to know what – or who – it was. Bodie directed his gun. “Freeze!”

He squeezed off a warning shot just as he realised his mistake. The shorter, bulkier figure, the one not encumbered by a struggling CI5 agent, turned and returned fire. Bodie threw himself down on the deck and covered his head with his arm as chunks of wood were gouged from the boat around him.

The shooting stopped. Bodie cautiously lifted his head, heart sinking. He couldn’t see the figures anymore and he didn’t know if he was still in their sights. “Shit,” he hissed. Well, he didn’t have much of a choice, did he? Taking a quick breath, he stuffed his gun back into his holster and eyed the extending gap between the boat and the dock. He backed up, did one more calculation and then, taking as much of a run-up as he could, launched himself out into space.

Most of his upper body and his left foot landed on the dock. His right foot and the rest of his leg slipped and he fell heavily onto his side. Bodie had a brief second of stillness and an overwhelming smell of wet concrete before the imbalance of his body weight dragged him backwards towards the river. Involuntarily, Bodie’s hand contracted and he grabbed out at anything and everything to try and slow his descent into the cold water. The bite of metal shot through his fingers and he held onto the docking ring despite the pain spiking in his hand. He stopped, the tips of his shoes trailing in the slime. Grimacing and with straining muscles, Bodie began to haul himself up and over the sharp edge.

A little voice in his head was hissing that he was too late; that Doyle was gone, but Bodie continued his dogged climb as fast as he could. I could still save him…

That’s why, when a pair of feet appeared in his vision, Bodie’s first instinct was to lash out.

“Steady on, mate! I’m only trying to help! Bloody hell, what the fuck are you doing sneaking around my dockyard?” The young man bent down, wavy hair flopping over his face. Unfortunately for the young man’s hopes of sounding threatening, he had as much aggression as a ticked-off mouse.

Bodie climbed to his feet, rage radiating off him. “CI5,” he spat as he held up his badge, “And you’ve got some explaining to do.”

***

“You fool. You damned impetuous, stubborn fool!” Cowley slammed his fist into the table. Bodie flinched but maintained his soldier-straight stance in front of his boss’ desk. “I told you and Doyle not to go in. Watch from a distance, I said. I remember saying that very clearly. Do not make a move no matter what happens!” Striding around the desk, Cowley jabbed a finger at his agent. “I suppose you’ll tell me that it was all your idea, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Doyle had no part of it, I assume?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I didn’t think Doyle was so weak-willed, 3.7.” Cowley removed his glasses and began to rub his nose, frustration clear on his features.

“It was my fault, sir,” Bodie protested hotly. “I said we should go in. You should be blaming me, sir, not him!”

“Aye,” Cowley’s hand tightened around the glasses until he could feel the plastic giving, “Since you’re the only one here, the blame does fall on you. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, 3.7.”

Lips thinning, Bodie growled, “You think I wanted Doyle to be kidnapped? He only agreed to the plan because he was fucking fed up with how cryptic everyone’s been about this case. He wanted to know the whole story – we both did!”

“Language, Bodie!”

“What the fuck is going on, sir? Who’s Kane? What is he shipping?”

Dryly, Cowley replied, “Isn’t that your job to find out, 3.7?”

Bodie stalked up to Cowley, planting himself in front of his boss. Cowley looked up, not at all perturbed by the obvious height and weight difference. His agent was almost shaking with fury and fear: Cowley could sense the panic that was coursing through Bodie’s veins. He knew that Bodie’s mind was filled with images of Doyle; images that were also flashing through Cowley’s brain. “I want to know what’s going on, _Mister_ Cowley.”

The weight of the decision sent ice racing through Cowley’s body. His first, automatic impulse was to lie, to say that he didn’t know. Sweat lightly beading around his collar, Cowley knew that Bodie wouldn’t accept that answer. Instead, he decided to go with distraction.

“Kane will have him,” he said calmly.

“And that means…?” Bodie’s words could have frozen a volcano.

“Doyle won’t be dead. Kane obviously went to some lengths to take him alive. That means, Bodie, that Doyle is more use to them alive.”

“So we have a chance?”

Cowley nodded. “There’s every chance, Bodie.” His tone softened. “Do you still have contacts east of the river?”

Bodie nodded, “Yeah. I’ve got some dirt on Martin Harry. He’ll tell me anything I need to know.”

Flicking open his glasses with practised ease, Cowley replied, “Get on it. Put out an APB for Doyle; see if anyone saw anything unusual in the area. Susan and Murphy have already interrogated the owner of the dockyard. I think it’s clear that he was unaware of the deals that were happening on his land.” As Bodie made for the door, Cowley called after him, “Pick up a tracer before you go, 3.7. I don’t want you to suddenly vanish off the face of the earth.”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie’s eyes were brighter now he had a plan. He paused and added, “You’ll keep me informed of any news, will you, sir?”

“Aye, I will.”

“By the way, sir,” he shifted uneasily, a little-boy-lost expression creeping into his features, “What are you going to do?”

There was a definite snap to Cowley’s voice, the sharpness of a choice having been made. “I am going to see an expert.”

***

Cowley awkwardly adjusted his tie and ran a hand through his thinning hair before he rang the doorbell.

The cottage was just as he remembered it; neat, picturesque. She had planted roses and lavender, he noticed, but the plants had rotted in the recent wet weather. Because he was sheltered under the porch from the oppressive rainfall, he didn’t hear the door open.

“George!”

Cowley looked over and his tense features softened. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth Walsh returned the smile, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She was dressed in her usual blouse and skirt combo, looking like a rather eccentric primary school teacher. “Come in, George. You’ll catch your death out here.” He accepted gratefully, stepping over the threshold. “How are you?”

He didn’t answer her. Concentrating on peeling off his mackintosh, he instead asked, “How have you been keeping, Elizabeth?”

“Very well,” she replied as she took his coat and slung it on the hook under the stairs. Rubbing down her skirt to chase away the few droplets that stained it, she asked, “Is it too early for a drink, George?”

“I’d rather not, Elizabeth.” He swallowed, uncharacteristically nervous.

The woman turned her steady grey gaze on him and sighed, “This isn’t a social visit, is it?”

Cowley inclined his head, trying not to notice the warm smell floating in from the kitchen that brought to his mind other evenings spent in this woman’s company; visits caused by hard cases and an occasional feeling of aloneness. Elizabeth kept her gaze locked on Cowley and raised an eyebrow.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m sorry to keep intruding on you, Elizabeth, but this is important-“

“Nonsense, George!” she shooed him into the living room and into a cushion-lined chair. “I rather enjoy playing at soldiers and spies. Besides, you never seem to call unless it’s work-related.” There was no heat to the accusation, only simple regret. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m sure.” That was because he’d already had a nip for Dutch courage. “Elizabeth-“

“Would you like water instead?” Elizabeth asked as she began to fix herself a Scotch on the rocks.

“No, no thank you. Elizabeth-“

“Anything to eat?”

“No thank you,” he interrupted her next question, “Elizabeth. Adam Kane has returned.”

Elizabeth Walsh carefully placed the decanter back on the side table. Every movement, every word, was measured and exact. “Is he now? Isn’t _that_ interesting.”

“I need your help, Elizabeth,” Cowley stumbled over his words, “Kane’s a menace to society.”

Taking a sip of her drink, Elizabeth lowered herself into the opposite chair with a small sigh. Despite her casual clothing and messy hair, she looked to Cowley like a queen about to give judgement. “You sound like your father.”

“I – I don’t mean because of what he is,” Cowley retorted, “I mean because of what he’s going to do, what he has done. Can you imagine what Kane would do if he gained even a semblance of power over London?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I can.”

Flushing, Cowley continued, “He’s heartless and egotistical and has no regard for others. He’s loose in London, right now, and he’s planning something big, a turf war.”

“Is this CI5’s jurisdiction, George? Surely only the highest ranking government ministers are permitted to deal with this?”

“It is damn well my problem! None of the ministers knows Kane for what he is; most of them don’t even believe that magic is real!”

Elizabeth laughed and said, “I’d expect no less from a Cowley. But don’t let your prejudices colour your judgement, George.” She said it lightly enough, but the man opposite her flinched.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I forget that –“

“I’m one of them?” The woman was smiling at him, enjoying seeing him squirm under her scrutiny. “You’ve always had this chip on your shoulder, George. No matter how hard you tried to change it.”

Cowley leant back in the chair and rubbed his eyes, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s been a long day. Family tradition must be stronger than I thought. I really came here to warn you, since Kane never liked that you and I got along.”

“I never said I wouldn’t help you, George,” Elizabeth replied shortly, “besides, I doubt Kane would bother chasing after me. Just because I’m a magic-user and you’re a hunter, it doesn’t mean anything anymore. You’ve never had to take up the family arms, have you? That all stopped at the start of the century.”

Shaking his head, Cowley said, “Luckily. Besides, magic seems to be dying out now. Are you sure about helping me?”

She frowned, “Of course. What’s happened?”

“There’s a new magic user in London. He calls himself Jadis, but his real name is Saul James. He murdered one of my agents this morning,” Cowley’s knuckles had gone white from where he was gripping the chair arm, but his face was completely composed, “Kane on the other hand, has murdered a key witness, kidnapped another of my agents and is about to incite a turf war with this Jadis.”

Elizabeth leant forwards, both hands clutched around her glass. “What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”

***

The van came to a ponderous stop. Doyle remained in his half-curled position, watching the bruise-coloured spots race across the blackness of his vision.

Or lack of vision. Parker and his mate had dragged him off the boat – Parker having produced a length of duct tape and proceeded to secure his limbs to the extent that he now felt like a parcel – and then thrown him into this van. He’d had a brief glimpse of the doors being slammed behind him before Parker had shoved a sack over his head.

Limbs cramping, he let out a brief groan through the gag. A boot rammed into his ribs and he grunted again.

“Come on, hard man.” A hand grabbed him under the arms and hauled him upright. Automatically, Doyle reached forward to steady himself and received a punch in the stomach. He doubled over, trying not to throw up. He heard Parker hiss in his ear, “Don’t bother. I learn from my mistakes.”

He had too, Doyle reflected bitterly. Parker had taken great care to empty his prisoner’s pockets and keep his hands in sight at all times. It was distressing sometimes to realise that your enemies had the same capability for intelligence that you did.

He didn’t have much longer to ponder his predicament as Parker heaved him out of the van and inside a draughty building. The air smelt sour and sharp; likely from whatever they were cooking to sell. He was carried down a long set of stairs, every bump feeling more and more claustrophobic.

Parker dropped Doyle into the chair with more force than was necessary. Head spinning as blood began to drain back to where it should be, Doyle automatically started to move, to get out from between the confining arms. A hand dragged on the back of the sack, choking him. The cold gun barrel was pressed against his neck, the shape unmistakable and threatening even through the rough material. Doyle stilled, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady. The gag impeded him from protesting and he was fervently glad that he was finally the right way up. Listening intently, head tilted slightly to the right, Doyle came to the shaky conclusion that there were at least three other people in the room with him. His wrists were grabbed and, as he began to draw them back, the sharp ice of a knife dissuaded him from trying that route. Parker was still whispering threats in his ear. The tape was sliced apart - the knife nicking his skin - and then his invisible kidnapper began binding his wrists to the chair arms with thick rope, palms upwards so his forearms were twisted painfully. When it was done, the gun disappeared, leaving a full moon bruise as a souvenir. He waited, trembling with the effort of staying still, as they went through the same rigmarole with his ankles. The hands withdrew.

Then the sack was ripped off of Doyle's head, light flooding his vision. He recoiled, thorns stabbing his brain through his eyes.

Slowly, the room came into focus. It was well-lit, bright. All light must have been artificial as he couldn't see any windows. The walls were whitewashed and the floor shone like it had been polished. There was furniture lined against the wall; a camp bed, a cabinet.

"Is this the intruder?"

The voice was pleasant like the speaker was inquiring about the weather.

"Yes. We found him skulking about, sir. Near the shipment."

"He's CI5," Parker said with obvious relish, "Here is his identification."

There was a pause. Doyle blinked and used the respite to attempt to pinpoint exactly where the speaker was. They were behind him to the left, if he wasn’t mistaken.

He managed not to start when the voice sounded from just behind his shoulder. “Good. I’ll take care of this, boys. You two get back to work.”

“But –“ Parker’s disappointment was palpable.

“Now.”

The footfalls died away and Doyle was left alone with the speaker. He kept his gaze focused on the opposite wall, determined not to show any anxiety.

A shadow appeared in the corner of his vision, a solid dark splash across the white wall. Doyle watched it warily.

“Raymond Doyle. Agent 4.5. Defender of the realm,” the voice became deliberately toneless. “One of George’s trained dogs.”

The man who stepped into his vision wasn’t what Doyle had been expecting. He had imagined a tall man with glinting eyes and the pallor of an undertaker. Instead, he was staring at a gently rounded gentleman around Cowley’s age with swept-back silver hair and a mild, almost friendly smile.

A shiver ran down Doyle’s spine. There was someone not right about the man who was slowly advancing on him and it was nothing to do with the fact he was tied up in his basement.

“Well, well, well…” a hand, calloused with work, gripped Doyle by the chin and raised his face to the light. Doyle flinched back, but the rope held him tight. “You’re a bit skinnier than most of George’s boys, but I expect that’s stood you in good stead, hmm?” The man’s glasses flashed, hiding his eyes. “My name is Adam Kane, but I expect that you already knew that.” In one swift movement, he released Doyle’s chin and ripped the tape off his mouth. “Why were you on the _Katherine_?”

Mouth stinging, Doyle snapped, “What are you shipping, Kane? Actually, never mind, I’m sure the lab boys will have figured it out by now since my partner got a packet of it. You’ll be going to jail for twenty years at least.”

Kane laughed and laid a hand on Doyle’s shoulder. “They shouldn’t have a problem. Those drugs are rather low-grade lysergic acid diethylamide. George wouldn’t have bothered with that unless it was me, Raymond.” He paused, “May I call you Raymond, Raymond?”

“That’s LSD? That’s it?”

“Yes, what were you expecting?” Kane looked genuinely surprised before his expression melted back into a placid interest. “I’m more interested in you, Raymond.” At Doyle’s questioning glance, he added, “You see, I know about CI5. I know its remit. ‘Best of the best’” he intoned, “so I want to know where George picked you up.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Doyle answered calmly.   

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Raymond!” Kane started to flick open Doyle’s shirt button, exposing his chest. He tapped the white scars from Mayli’s bullets thoughtfully. 

Doyle forced himself not to flinch again as Kane touched his broken cheekbone. “Get off me," he snarled.

Kane let go of his prisoner and wandered over to the table which Doyle now noticed was holding a decanter of what looked like whisky. He shut his mouth firmly, visions of the future clamouring for his attention.

“I really wouldn’t expect anything less from a CI5 agent,” Kane repeated, his back to Doyle, “but I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

Doyle remained silent, sweat beading on his forehead.

"I know what you're thinking," Kane said pleasantly, "How many bones am I going to break? How many teeth? I know that you and Parker have a history. He's been practically begging me to let him interrogate you, Raymond."

Doyle stared at Kane. There wasn't a flicker in his gaze, not a twitch in his jaw. Kane smiled. Cowley had trained his men well. "Now, I'm not going to have you beaten up because we both know that's not going to work."

Kane stood up and wandered over to his captive; he was strapped to a chair in an unknown location, but still managing to look a little bored. "But, you forget that I know a little about human nature. Why would I beat you up? Torture doesn't work because the victim will say what he thinks the torturer wants to hear." The decanter chimed cheerfully against Kane's glass. "Anything to stop the pain." Kane took a sip of his whisky. "This is good stuff," he assured Doyle.

"We can continue with you asking questions and me not answering. It works for me," Doyle said airily.

Kane smiled, despite himself. "I'm afraid I'm a little strapped for time. You were a policeman, weren't you?"

Doyle didn't reply. His stomach was starting to churn, alarm roiling in his chest.

"Like I said, I know human nature." Kane had his back to Doyle and was rummaging inside his jacket pocket. "I'm good at... guessing things about a person, like, what kind of job they are likely to have, their ideologies, their fears. No soldier would keep their hair that long." Doyle stayed quiet, realising - suddenly - just how far the situation had gotten out of his control. The silver-haired man in front of him was clever: Cowley standards clever. Sweat was trickling down his back, his wrists starting to chafe under the rope. Needles of twine were pricking his skin; he was shifting enough for tiny pearls of blood to ooze out of the punctures. "Did George ever tell you about the time we had to find out if a road was mined?" Kane asked conversationally. There was a click as he opened something.

"Yeah," Doyle swallowed the tremor in his voice, "yeah, I've heard that one."

Kane sounded pleased like his dog had done a good trick. "Oh good. George could be a cold-hearted bastard but even he was disturbed by that. Boom! One man gone. Then another. Then another."

Doyle wet his lips, "So what? The point is...?

"Raymond, I was the one who suggested it."

Kane nodded to someone in the doorway. As Doyle tried to twist his head around, hands clamped down on his right elbow and wrist, stilling the little movement he had. He looked up to see Parker leering at him. The other heavy stood just at Parker's shoulder, close enough that Doyle could smell his earthy cologne. "Roll up his sleeve."

"No!" Doyle tried desperately to yank his arm away, to twist it out of the ropes, to get out of the chair. But the heavy just grimly pulled the material up and exposed his forearm with the corded muscles and prominent blue veins. "No! Don't - don't - don't! Let me go! Let me go, you bastards!"

Kane had stepped around behind him and now he spoke directly in Doyle's ear, "I know you were a policeman and I've never met a policeman who didn't fear a needle. Why I could have the good stuff in here... and I know you found some of the LSD I was shipping. This," His grin was wide and toothy, like a tiger's, "is even better."

"I'm not telling you anything," Doyle managed.

"That will change."

And seconds later, Doyle was hearing silver and tasting green.

Blood pooled on the chair arms.

***

Bodie practically kicked open the front doors of the anonymous Whitehall building that housed CI5. His mouth was dry, his head pounding. Rubbing his temples, he marched along the corridor trying desperately to think of someone else to lean on – or threaten – in order to find out where Kane had taken his partner.

He found a handy corner out of everyone’s way and leant his forehead against the wall, feeling the cold plaster against his skin. He had built a stone wall in his mind, but images of Doyle were seeping through. They were black and red, sickening in their clarity and coming fast with snippets of sound, sharp and cycling over and over. Bodie closed his eyes, but the flood kept coming. “I’ll find you, sunshine,” he promised the wall, “Just hang on.”

“Bodie!” He looked up, mortified to have been seen displaying such weakness. Susan and Murphy were standing beside him, Murphy clutching a wad of paper and photographs and Susan with a righteous light in her gaze. The pleased expressions faded when they saw Bodie’s hunched position.

“Bodie, are you OK?” Susan asked as she tentatively touched her co-worker’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Yeah. What’s happened?” Bodie rubbed his eyes and he was relieved to find them dry. “You sound excited, Susan.”

Murphy brandished the papers, “We’ve got evidence! Hard, iron-cast evidence!”

“Evidence of what? Have you found him?”

“Who?” Murphy frowned and glanced around, “Hang on, where’s Doyle? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”

“He’s missing. I was wondering –“

“Is he in trouble?” Susan interrupted, “How?”

Bodie raised his shoulders in a futile gesture, “It’s my fault. It’s my fault he got snatched.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Murphy began, but he was cut off by Bodie’s intense glare. “We just need to get this to the Cow and then we’ll be able to help you.”

Bodie glanced at the papers. “What are those?” he asked.

Murphy’s triumphant grin could have lit all the bulbs in the corridor twice over. “We’ve found Jadis.”

***

He felt so warm but the ground underneath him was cold and hard. Doyle rolled onto his side. The air smelt sweet, but it was sickly and so overpowering that he found himself gagging. Where was he?

Slowly he raised his head to take in his surroundings.

It looked to be a house, a small bedsit really. There was a mouldy carpet and a broken bed, the too-small cover thin and dirty. He thought he could see a bundle of clothes underneath the bed. The room looked similar to the hundreds he had entered in this job –

_(Old job)_

It was grimy and worse than the last one, but at least he couldn’t see any bodies –

_(I was in a basement. I was in trouble)_

And there was still that smell. Doyle started to climb to his feet, but he suddenly found that his limbs were trembling. Confused, he looked down at his hands, seeing every whorl and line so clearly that it made him dizzy. What was going on? He wasn’t in uniform and that was weird because the only way he’d be in a house like this was if he was investigating it.

_(I can’t remember)_

Something made him look closer even though his limbs were as heavy as lead. The stink. It seemed to be coming from him.

He tore away the soiled sleeves and stared, vomit threatening to choke him.

His arm was a riot of colours; the stench radiating out having been released from under the sleeves. The skin was rotted, track marks red bullet holes in the crook of his elbow. Blood and pus gleamed wetly in the dull light. His arm was emaciated and only now did he realise that the rest of him was as scabby and skeletal. When? When had this happened?

_(I’m a policeman… CI5 agent… junkie… how long? How long?)_

_(Since forever)_

Trying to fight the scream that was attempting to claw its way out of him, Doyle slowly turned his head, knowing beyond a doubt that that wasn’t a pile of clothes under the bed, knowing that the smell of rot wasn’t just coming from him…

_(Fallen… fallen so far…)_

***

She’d ignored the searching glances aimed in her direction, more curious than hostile. Elizabeth Walsh watched from her seat in the back of the room as Cowley had quickly outlined the details of Doyle’s snatch to the tall, dark-haired man and the young woman with her hair cut in a sensible bob. The other agent – Bodie, she was pretty sure he was called – stayed in his stiff soldier’s pose with his stiff, soldier poker face. Elizabeth had seen men of his type before, mostly aggressive louts, but she could sense the man’s worry and shame. He did not speak throughout Cowley’s explanation, except to correct his superior on some minor details and even then it was reluctant.

Elizabeth cast her mind back to the last time she’d helped CI5, trying to remember. Bodie had been admiring of her, she’d overheard him talking to his partner about her puzzle board. ‘Mind like a steel trap’ he’d said and she shouldn’t have been so pleased. His partner, this Doyle, she hadn’t seen as much of. Physically he’d been memorable; curly hair, almost neat attire and a broken cheekbone. Her natural nosiness had nearly compelled her to ask about that, but she’d managed not to. He hadn’t been as impressed with her, but she guessed that it would take a lot to incite that reaction.

She wasn’t sure she had liked him. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t have wished Kane’s form of hospitality on anyone.

Elizabeth managed to turn her attention back to the plans of raids and searches, an uncomfortable itch shivering up and down her spine.

***

Bullets flew overhead so fast that they looked like lasers from some sci-fi B-movie. Doyle crouched behind the meagre cover provided by a rubbish bin, wishing that he hadn’t dropped his radio. The navy uniform stood out like a beacon against the red brick walls around him. Sweat plastered his hair to the back of his neck. He’d lost the hat back somewhere in the twisting alleyways. His superiors would string him up for losing it, but Doyle would just have to explain that they’d been ambushed and he would rather lose a hat than his life.

_(They?)_

There was another policeman sharing his space; he was so close that Doyle could smell his aftershave.

_(I know that smell)_

No time to worry about that, not with an armed gang hot on their heels. Doyle grabbed the other man’s arm and yelled over the clamour of gunfire, “Do you have your radio?”

The other man shook his head. He looked young, younger than Doyle and terrified. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

“No, we are not going to die. Back-up will be coming.” Doyle risked a glance over the bin. The metal sparked and buckled as a bullet bounced off it. Ducking back, he repeated, “We’re not going to die.”

He could hear shouting. The gang was close and if they didn’t move soon they would be discovered. In his mind’s eye, he could see the shotguns being levelled at them and could feel the final pain of the blast tearing into his body. The gang would execute them.

“Come on,” he shouted, “I don’t fancy being tomorrow’s news, do you?”

The young policeman pointed to a shed behind them, “We can get weapons in there!”

Doyle nodded. “I’m going over. Cover me if you can.” He didn’t wait for affirmation and instead broke from cover, sprinting towards the tatty shed. Bullets followed him along the wall, loud and sharp. Grit stung his face, brick dust staining the back and shoulders of his uniform. Chest heaving, he flung himself inside the shed.

Pausing for a moment to check that he hadn’t just run into a trap, Doyle began to feel around in the dark for something, anything, to hold back the tide of gangsters. His limbs felt strangely heavy, but he pushed the thought aside. He must be less fit than he had believed.

_(Have I woken up? Is this real?)_

There! His hands closed over something cold and thin. It was a gun-barrel; the smell of rust assaulted him and his heart sank. Would it still work? Well, it would have to, wouldn’t it? Doyle scrambled back to his feet and weighed the gun in his hands. It was automatic: a nasty-looking machine gun. Feeling around, he found a full magazine locked, loaded and ready to go. His face twisted into a narrow smile. He could sense the power in this machine even just holding it. This would work.

He flicked the safety catch off and burst back through the shed door.

Shotgun blasts peppered the walls around him. Doyle planted his feet, readied himself for the kickback, yelled at the policeman to duck, and pumped the trigger.

He wasn’t ready. The gun swung wide, tiny burning shards of metal biting deep into whatever surface they connected with.

Including the young policeman. Doyle didn’t see the bullets strike him, didn’t hear the scream that he so clearly voiced. But he smelt the explosion of gore and metal, sensed it billowing into a rose, a waterfall, a fountain. Blood splashed across his face and hands.

The gun fell from between his limp fingers. Doyle dropped to his knees, a strange numbness settling around him. The young policeman was sprawled on the ground; faceless, hair and minuscule blood droplets floating in the air. He crawled over, ignoring the bullets thudding over his head, and reached as if in a daze towards the man’s wrist.

Why he expected to feel a pulse was beyond him as the guilt came crashing down.

_(My fault, my fault, Jesus, Jesus, fuck-fuck-fuck-no-no!)_

***

The building plans lay crumpled on his desk, red pen scrawled upon it. Cowley removed his glasses and rubbed a hand across his eyes. It was a big place, a difficult place to raid. They couldn’t raid it yet, he knew. If he was wrong then all he would be doing was stirring up a hornet’s nest and provoking an attack from two sides. If he was right then it would still be a costly manoeuvre. No, better to focus on one flank first to keep from being overwhelmed.

He needed more agents, three was not nearly enough. But to bring in reinforcements from elsewhere in CI5 had its own problems. The fewer people that know about magic the better, he thought viciously, I don’t want them thinking I’ve gone mad.

Cowley chewed one of the legs of his glasses morosely. There, of course, was another complication: Doyle.

He was almost certain that Kane was holding him and was nearly as certain that he was still alive. From Bodie’s description, the two men had gone some effort not to kill either of his agents and Kane wasn’t petty enough to have someone kidnapped just to land a killing blow. He would be interrogating Doyle now, using his magic to disorientate and hurt in order to draw out whatever information he needed. What could Doyle tell him? That they were hunting Kane because of his drugs ring? That Jadis had murdered a CI5 agent? It was likely that Kane already knew about those.

No, there was another possibility, one that Cowley had only just realised. Doyle could be a hostage, held in order to force his hand one way or another. Cowley knew that, logically, Kane’s capture was far more important than the life of one agent; if he was allowed to remain at large along with Jadis then Kane could – and would – be able to wipe out entire London streets along with hundreds of lives. He shuddered, imagining the chaos a battle between two obviously powerful magic users could create. The secret would be revealed and then the eye of the populace would fall on the government. Rioting in the streets, the everyman’s fury at being kept in the dark about beings that could have the power to destroy them. They would be wrong, Cowley noted, since there were very few magic users left and of those, most of their powers were limited.

But emotionally, Cowley didn’t want to have to sacrifice one of his lads.

Sighing deeply, he plucked his coat off the back of his chair and left the office, switching the light off behind him.

***

Softness and warmth made him stir. Doyle warily opened his eyes, white light blinding him. He groaned and a voice from nearby said, “Easy, laddie. Take it easy.” Cowley?

“Mr Cowley?” he asked, hating the roughness of his voice. “What…”

“You’re in the hospital, laddie. Try not to worry.” Doyle squinted against the bright light.

“How did I end up here? Last I remember…” he licked his lips, realising how dry his throat was. “Last I remember I was still in Kane’s basement.”

“Kane’s gone,” Cowley said brusquely. Doyle could see him now. He was sitting beside the hospital bed, hands folded, expression granite. “We stormed the basement.” His features softened, “How much do you remember, Doyle?”

“N-nothing. Nothing of the rescue at least. I said that, didn’t I?” The knife of unease was sliding upwards through his ribs, making him irritable, “You killed Kane?”

“We’ve arrested his accomplices; one is yet to regain consciousness. No, Adam Kane is still at large.” Cowley moved over to the bed, patted Doyle’s shoulder. Doyle shuddered but he didn’t know why. “You’ve got to tell me, Doyle. You’ve got to tell me everything.” 

He shook his head, “’m thirsty. Can I have some water?”

“Listen to me. Kane is at large. I need to know everything now before he hurts anyone else. Do you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t. Sir –“

“Do you remember what he did to you, lad?”

Doyle narrowed his eyes. Why did Cowley sound so off? He looked like Cowley, but his boss was rarely this forceful with his agents and certainly not after they’d been rescued from a sadist like Kane. “Not really, I think…” certainty gripped him, “He drugged me, Sir. LSD, that’s what he was shipping.”

Cowley nodded, “Good, the doctors’ found traces of it in your bloodstream. I was just checking.” He patted Doyle’s shoulder again. “Why were you watching Kane?”

“What do you mean, sir? You know why we were watching Kane,” Doyle shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “You know.”

“Remind me.”

He sighed and rattled off, “Kane was shipping drugs. Bodie and I went to stake it out. We decided to get involved even though you told us not to and then Kane’s heavies hit me on the head. I got captured, you rescued me, end of story,” Doyle suddenly stopped and glanced around the hospital room. “Speaking of Bodie, where is he?”

Cowley nodded soothingly and that was wrong too. “Do you know where he held you?”

“Err, no. Sir, if you rescued me surely you should-?” Why were his arms so heavy? He could barely move them. “Where’s Bodie?”

“He’ll come and visit you tomorrow. You need your rest.”

“No, Bodie would be here.” He was shouting now, knowing that something was very, very wrong. “Sir, where is Bodie?”

“Bodie will be here tomorrow.” Cowley smiled and now Doyle knew without a doubt that the man standing beside him wasn’t Cowley. The tiny puzzle pieces were fitting into place. Cowley’s face looked odd because it was different – there were fewer lines, his chin was thinner. His hair sat differently and was thicker and darker. Doyle tried to lift his legs, to swing himself out of the bed.

He couldn’t move.

He fought the paralysis, pain lancing along his wrists and ankles. “Who the fuck are you?”

“You don’t know?” the Cowley clone smiled but it was cold. He reached out and pushed Doyle back against the increasingly solid bed. “I’m George Cowley, laddie. I’m your boss.”

“No. No, you’re not. Who the fuck are you? What have you done with Bodie? Where is he?” He felt as powerless as a kitten. “Where’s my partner?”

The room was spinning and slowly going black, shattering into oblivion.

“Tell me what you’ve done to my partner! Let me go!” He wanted to lash out, fight back, but the Cowley clone was stronger. “Where’s Bodie?”

Just before he lost all sense, Doyle saw the glint of invisible glasses shining on the pretender’s face.

“Your partner, or your partner, Raymond?”

Then he knew nothing.

 

Adam Kane stepped back from his prisoner, shock radiating through his mind. He underestimated the man. He stared at Doyle for a few minutes, apparently deep in thought. The agent was slumped in the chair, so deeply asleep it might as well have been a coma. “Well, well,” he muttered grudgingly, “You have a stronger mind than I expected, Raymond Doyle.” He let the last traces of the illusion fade away, leaving Doyle’s mind clear. Shaking his head and fixing his usual mild expression, Kane left the basement. He locked and barred the door meticulously behind him.

He was still holding the full syringe.

***

The red telephone on Cowley’s desk began to trill. Cowley eyed it suspiciously, already knowing who was on the other end.

Elizabeth hauled herself out of the other chair. “Shall I go ask that nice Betty to trace it?” she asked calmly.

Cowley nodded. Elizabeth left, the door swinging shut behind her. The phone kept singing, seeming so loud in the dusty silence of his office.

Sweat breaking out on his brow, Cowley reached for the phone. “Hello,” he managed to keep his voice level, “George Cowley speaking.”

“George! It’s been a long time.” Kane spoke like they had just been reunited at a vicar’s tea party. “How have you been, George? The years catching up to you yet?”

“Cut the chit-chat, Kane,” Cowley growled, “You didn’t call for pleasantries. What do you want?”

“Always focused on the here and now aren’t you, George. You haven’t changed.” The accusation ran silver down the years, sending ghostly fingers of memory tingling up and down Cowley’s spine. “I’m calling for a… favour, George. A very special favour because of the old days.”

“The old days belong in the past,” Cowley retorted. His hands were shaking with the effort of appearing calm. “Besides, coercion is too ugly a word for you, isn’t it, Kane?”

“Oh no,” Kane gave a genuine chuckle. “I actually quite like the word. No, no, George; I’m not forcing you to do anything, really. I just want to buy some time from you.”

The shaking was getting bad now. Cowley began to drum on the polished wood of his desk to try and counteract the tremors, thoughts boiling in his brain. What was Kane planning? What was his next move? He guessed this was what his agents sometimes felt like when he was executing his triple thinks.

Unfortunately, triple thinks were only useful if you were the only person to know about them. “Time? The single reason I’d let you have time is if you use it to leave Britain alone.”

He heard Kane tut down the ‘phone. “That is so old-fashioned, George. Hunting magic-users is no longer legal, you know. Your father was so dutiful about that.”

“Thank God for that. You know that I never liked my father. But there’s no law that protects you from murder, Kane.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, George.” Kane’s self-righteous tone was grating. “That how it is now.”

He heard the door open and glanced over his shoulder to see Elizabeth slip back in. She nodded and began to attach the equipment. They were tracing Kane’s call. Immediately he felt a little better to have an ally. “Get on with it, Kane. We’re wasting time. What do you want?”

A sigh, distorted by static, came down the line. “Here it is, George. I have one of your agents with me. Goes by the name of Raymond Doyle. He’s a good agent, George. You should be very proud.”

“Proud?” Icy shards stabbed into Cowley’s ribs. “Why?”

“He held out for a long time. Loyalty; I like that. Oh, don’t worry,” Kane added with a smile as Cowley began to object, “He hasn’t been harmed. Well, not much and not by me. He refused to come quietly, you see.”

Cowley didn’t say anything.

Kane continued, “You understand, George, that I’m not the only threat to London? I know that young Saul – Jadis as he’s calling himself – wants to crown himself king of the London underworld. We. Cannot. Let. That. Happen. You hate me, George, I know you do, but Saul is far more dangerous than I. He kills indiscriminately and for fun. He’s not much more than a child and he’s capable of getting what he wants by force. He has no control. I wouldn’t hesitate to say he’s insane.”

“He’s your nephew, isn’t he?” Cowley managed. Kane sounded so sincere now.

“And my cousin. I’m afraid his parents had… strange ideas about bloodlines. Listen to me, George. CI5 can’t stop us. You don’t have the power or the resources. This is my offer because I know you want to protect London. Leave me alone. Let me fight Saul. Let me kill him. I am far more deserving of control than he is. He’ll start a reign of terror and we can’t have that, can we?”

And you wouldn’t? Cowley thought bitterly. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. “What’s this got to do with Doyle?” he asked.

“As a symbol of my goodwill,” Kane replied grandiosely, “I shall release your agent, alive and well. You can have him back at HQ by tomorrow afternoon, by the latest. Then you can go back to chasing down your petty criminals and frankly unimaginative terrorists.”

“Alive and well? Just like that?” he couldn’t believe his ears. Kane was throwing away an ace; he had a bargaining chip! “What’s the catch?”

Elizabeth straightened and out of the corner of his eye, Cowley saw her frown.

“No catch,” Kane assured him, “Merely a request. Stay out of my way, George. Leave me to deal with Saul.” There was a click. Cowley held his breath, wondering if Kane was about to put the ‘phone down. “You know the estate, King’s Street?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll leave him there. Two hours from now and you may collect him. Remember, you double-cross me, George and I will kill him. You understand? I’ll target your other… what was it… _lads_. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I swear if you follow these instructions then you will get Raymond Doyle back in one piece.”

“I understand. We’re men of honour, aren’t we, Kane?” Cowley’s tone was biting, fury bubbling up from the depths.

Kane picked up on it. “You are no man of honour and for that, I applaud you, George. Stay out of my way and no one else gets hurt. Besides, tapping the call was pointless by the way. I’m calling from a telephone box in the centre of London. Better luck next time, old chap.”

Cowley slowly replaced the ‘phone in the cradle. Elizabeth regarded him with uncharacteristic solemn eyes. “Is it good news?”

He nodded slowly. Brushing past her, Cowley opened the door and smiled sadly at Betty. “Can you locate 3.7 for me? Tell him to find a blanket and some torches and then report to my office. As quickly as possible.”

***

Cowley carefully manoeuvred his Grenada down the small alley. He heard Bodie shift in the passenger seat and knew that he was thinking along the same lines: if Kane wanted to, he could pick them both off before they even managed to reach the tumbled down housing block where Doyle was apparently waiting. The mess of fallen masonry and half-invisible vantage points would have had Macklin tearing his hair out in frustration.

He was deliberately taking one-half of his best team into a tactician’s worst nightmare.

And even worse, he knew they had no choice if they wanted to get Doyle back.

The walls were set in close, but the rain was hissing along the cracked, mossy tiles and filling in puddles under the Grenada’s tyres. It was a small square of houses set around a courtyard; an old Victorian era slum that had been abandoned by its residents shortly after the Second World War and the local council had never gotten around to pulling down. Cowley parked the car in the centre of the square where they could easily turn and get out if they needed to.

As he wrenched up the handbrake, Cowley looked over at Bodie. He was glancing around at the houses; filing away information in case of attack, gaze sharp even with the continued lack of sleep and the early hour. His gun was already in his hands, glossy and dark, bullets glittering as he slid them into the chambers, and his expression was hard.

Despite the situation, Cowley felt a swell of muted satisfaction: he’d helped honed these skills. He kept the feeling out of his voice as he snapped, “Remember, Bodie, this could be a trap. You obey my orders, no matter what happens.”

Bodie gave him a steady glance that promised nothing. “Sir.”

“Because, believe me, what I say will be a damn sight better than you blindly rushing in and getting you, me and Doyle killed. Understand?”

Pursing his lips, Bodie nodded truculently. Cowley let a glimmer of softness into his eyes; Kane had said that Doyle was alive and, in spite of his past atrocities, Cowley was inclined to believe the man. It didn’t stop him from finding a loophole; Doyle would only be alive until they found him and then Kane could cut them down with a bomb or hail of bullets. Not one word of his deal would have been a lie.

No, Kane hadn’t sounded like he’d wanted to get rid of Cowley, just get him off of his back while he dealt with this turf dispute.

They both climbed out of the car, their weapons in their fists and their eyes scanning their surroundings. It was quiet except for the rattle of the rain and occasional moans of the wind slipping through fractures in the stone roofs. Without a word, Cowley opened the rear door and pulled out the large blanket, two battery-powered torches and bottle of water.

He bundled them under his arm and, gesturing for Bodie to stay on alert, led the agent into the shadowy maze of stone and slate.

The air was musty and dank. Bodie edged through the darkness, his gun ready and his torch clutched clammily in his other hand. The only sound was the wind and the rain and their breathing. Was Doyle here? Had Kane released him like Cowley had said? He swung the torch methodically, trying to calm his heart rate. What if Kane had lied? What if Doyle was still being held somewhere else by this psycho? What if, as his instincts were screaming at him, this was a trap created to lure Cowley into Kane’s clutches? 

What if – what if – what if… that wasn’t going to help Doyle. Bodie squared his shoulders and forced himself to think about clearing the area. Cowley saw the tightening of muscles, but all he did was direct his torch into the darkest corners.

 _Things_ skittered away as the light fell on them and both men gave involuntary shudders. They had begun to call out now, Bodie’s voice harsh and Cowley’s more restrained. The rain outside had intensified and twice Bodie had been shocked into action by the icy bite of water dripping through the roof.

Trying not to growl with frustration, Bodie swept the torch beam across the next room only seeing rubble and rats and –

A flash of blue.

Denim blue.

Denim _jeans_.

“Ray!” he started forwards, but a hand slammed into his chest. He stopped, disconcerted, and glanced over to see Cowley staring at him.

“Secure the area.” His voice was low.

Bodie looked back at the prone figure, the torchlight travelling along the still form until it reached the dark curls. Doyle’s eyes didn’t open even as the harsh light fell on his face. “But –“

“Now, Bodie.”

With a flash in his eyes that promised retribution, Bodie turned away and disappeared into the next room. He would check thoroughly, Cowley knew, even if he was desperate to get to his partner. Especially since he was desperate to help Doyle. Quickly, he illuminated the four corners of the room, making sure that no one was waiting there and then picked his way over to his agent. There were no tripwires and Cowley finally knelt down next to the man, fumbling with the torch. Doyle was lying on a pile of debris, rain staining a mouth-like patch on his checked shirt, chest rising and falling very slowly. His hands and ankles had been bound up with thick rope and his mouth taped shut.

Just so Kane could ensure that we found him here, Cowley realised in a sudden rush of fury, helpless and trussed up like a present – or a threat.

Look at my compassion, Kane was saying, look at how worthy I would be!

With this thought echoing in his mind, Cowley swept his light along Doyle’s body, looking for any signs of spinal damage or blood. Doyle’s right eye was a vivid purple, but apart from that he seemed unharmed. His shirt was open to the waist and Cowley shuddered as he attempted to banish those thoughts from his mind. A flare of white caught his gaze and he knelt down to pluck a folded slip of paper from Doyle’s belt. Under the torchlight, he read, TO GEORGE.

At that moment, as if Cowley’s touch had been the key, Doyle stirred weakly and offered a muffled groan. Tucking the note away, Cowley was beside his agent in a heartbeat. “Doyle? Can you hear me, laddie?”

Cowley ripped off the tape, trying not to notice the rank smell of sweat, and then dug in his pocket for his penknife. Doyle was watching him with confused eyes, one slightly more open than the other, exhaustion dragging at his features. “Sir…?” he rasped.

“Aye, laddie. Lie still.” Doyle’s skin was cold to the touch; he must have been lying here for several hours. He was also shivering, his teeth clinking softly.

“How did you… why am I…?” Doyle blinked and asked in a much stronger voice, “Where’s Bodie?”

“Securing the area.” The last strand of rope dropped onto the grey bricks, curling wetly. Cowley gently eased Doyle up, leg protesting, pulled him out of the steady stream of water and propped him up against a dry-ish wall. “Here, laddie, drink this,” he proffered the water bottle. Doyle stared at the bottle for a second before his brain registered what it was and then closed his fingers around the cold plastic. Cowley began to tuck the blanket around the agent, frowning as Doyle upended the bottle. “Little sips. Don’t drink it all at once.” Doyle ignored him and then choked on a sudden surge of liquid. “Easy! Easy, lad! Sip, don’t inhale.”

“Ray!” Bodie scrambled towards them, torchlight bobbing wildly. “No one here but us mice,” he added when he caught Cowley’s quick frown. “Ray, are you alright?”

“I… I think so,” Doyle was blinking rapidly like he was struggling to stay awake. “Where am I?”

“An old estate, near King’s Street,” Bodie replied as he gathered the blanket tighter around his partner’s shoulders. Running a hand through Doyle’s hair, he said, “I can’t feel any lumps.” Cowley nodded and stepped away, watching the pair.

Doyle looked up at them and, as if the thought had just occurred to him, asked hesitantly, “And… and is this… real?”

“Real?” Bodie brushed a curl aside, “Of course it’s real, sunshine. ‘m here.”

Breathing quickening alarmingly, Doyle shook him off and grabbed for his sleeves. He yanked them up so savagely that the fabric tore. Cowley looked away, knowing that the track marks that Doyle was looking for weren’t going to be there. Bodie was frowning, startled by his partner’s behaviour. He reached forward and gently gripped his partner’s wrists, lowering them down to Doyle’s lap.

Doyle looked up at him, “I… I thought… I…” he ran his hand through his hair and groaned, the sentence forgotten.

“Can you walk?” Cowley asked. Doyle nodded adamantly and then started to try and drag himself off of the floor.

Doyle made it halfway to his feet before his legs gave out. Bodie stepped forward and caught him smartly before he hit the ground. “Need some help do you, sunshine?” he asked cheerily. Doyle glared at him, but his eyes were already glazing over with exhaustion. Wrinkling his nose at the stench of mould and sweat, Bodie hauled Doyle’s arm around his shoulder, “You need a bath, Raymond.”

“Want a bath,” Doyle mumbled back fervently. “Want outta here.”

“Your wish is my command.” Bodie winced as Doyle managed to cross his feet, the sudden drag on his shoulder nearly overbalancing them both. “Careful, sunshine, you’ll have us both over. Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Just tired… kinda sleepy.”

Bodie glanced over Doyle’s head and made eye contact with his boss. ‘Drugged?’ he mouthed. Cowley’s face, what little he could see as his eyes adjusted, was impassive and not much help. “Did Kane make you eat anything, Ray?”

Doyle shook his head and then rested it on Bodie’s collarbone. His face was twisted – not in pain, but in frustration like he was trying to remember something important. “Hungry.”

“Drink anything, then?” Bodie persisted.

“No.” They were nearly back to the entrance now. Rats scuttled out of their way, their tiny claws goading horror into Cowley and Bodie’s minds. Doyle was almost boneless; it looked like he’d just run a marathon. He sagged against Bodie, still frowning. “Are these my feet? Because they’re not working right.”

“If you really want, I’ll carry you, Ray,” Bodie said, “But we’re nearly at the car… see?”

Cowley pulled open the rear door and Bodie helped Doyle slide inside. Positioning his partners against the window and still scanning their surroundings, Bodie eased himself into the car beside him. Cowley got into the driver’s seat and started the ignition. The engine roared throatily. As the car pulled away, both Cowley and Bodie heaved a sigh of relief.

Apparently, Kane had stuck to his word.

Doyle groaned and, without thinking, Bodie caught his head as he slumped forward. Carefully, he moved Doyle so his head was resting on Bodie’s shoulder. Doyle made no move to stop him and thankfully surrendered to Bodie’s warmth. Not caring that Cowley was driving, Bodie worked his arm around his friend and began to try and rub some life back into Doyle’s chilled limbs.

“Are we out?” Doyle sounded confused.

“You’re OK, Ray,” Bodie murmured soothingly, “It’s OK. You’re safe.” He had to stop himself from crushing Doyle just because he was here and _breathing._ “It’s definitely real, eh? You can pass out now if you want.”

He nodded, burying his face in Bodie’s shirt. His eyes started to shut, his breathing slowing into a more natural rhythm. Bodie began to relax his grip.

Doyle’s eyes suddenly snapped open. “Parker!”

“What? Who?”

“Parker! Don’t – don’t you remember? Ojuka!” Agitation made his voice shrill, frustration sharpening the vowels. One hand shot out from under the blanket and grasped Bodie’s shirt. “Parker! He held me in the basement, remember?” A weird smile disfigured Doyle’s mouth. “And I beat the shit out of him,” he added with a burst of pleasure. 

Bodie’s frown suddenly smoothed out as he realised what Doyle was trying to say. “You mean Parker’s working for Kane? Is he the one who grabbed you?”

“Yeh.” This outburst seemed to have exhausted Doyle because he only just had time to utter this last confirmation before sleep sealed his eyes. He slumped down Bodie’s chest with a final sigh.

Bodie cautiously shifted, pillowing his partner’s head. With his free hand, he checked for a pulse. “Ray…? Ray, can you – no, he’s out like a light.”

“We’ve got a lead now,” Cowley said, not taking his eyes off the road.

He ignored the furious glare that scorched the back of his neck.

“You knew who kidnapped him,” Bodie said quietly. “I know you did.”

“Yes.”

“Then do you know what Kane did to him?”

Cowley was tempted to lie, but one glance in the rear view mirror dissuaded him. The sight of Doyle sprawled, limply, on Bodie’s shoulder brought back memories; of comrades and enemies alike that had faced Kane’s particular method of interrogation. “He’s in no danger, I promise you. Yes, I do know.”

“Tell me.”

Cowley attempted to keep his words steady. “Not now. First, we need to get him back to HQ.”

***

 “Here,” Bodie said, his voice low and very soft. Far softer than when he’d been searching for Doyle in the rubble of that ruined house, far softer than when he was talking to Doyle in front of other people. “This’ll help,” he held out a tube of antiseptic cream, the top already unscrewed. “Just sit down, I’ll do it.”

They were in the CI5 rest room, Bodie having cleared it out for his purpose. Doyle had been deposited on the sofa to sleep off whatever drugs had been pumped into his system and now, he was sitting up looking like he’d dragged through a hedge backwards.

“Bodie, I’m fine. I’m OK,” Doyle murmured drowsily, “Just got knocked about a bit. It happens in our line of work, remember? I gotta be more careful who I get tied up with, eh?” The joke wasn’t very good, but Bodie smiled.

“Give me your hand,” he said and Doyle obeyed, laying his hand palm-up, onto Bodie’s waiting hand. Bodie hissed through his teeth at the inflamed skin. “How long were you tied up?”

“I don’t know… a day? How long was I missing?”

 “Twenty-six hours,” Bodie replied. He knew. He had counted every minute from the moment of Doyle’s disappearance.

“Twenty-six hours then. I was bursting for a pee.”

“Should have gone before you left.”

“Yeah,” Doyle chuckled gently and then lapsed into silence.

Bodie squeezed out a little white dot of cream, frowned at the raw skin, and doubled the amount. With feather-light fingertips, he began to apply it to the red bracelets encircling Doyle’s wrists. Doyle bit his lip but didn’t wince. As he smoothed in the cream, Bodie asked, “Was it just rope?”

Doyle shook his head, “Duct tape first. Then they tied me to a chair. Stings like hell.”

“I’ll bet,” Bodie couldn’t meet Doyle’s eyes. “What happened, Ray?”

Doyle shrugged carefully, his t-shirt crumpling along his shoulders. “I wasn’t concentrating, I think. I assumed I was in the clear.”

“You know what they say, never assume. It makes an ass out of you and me,” Bodie said. “Go on.”

“Well, they must have followed us. They knew we were at the dockyard. Parker grabbed me when I went to check one of the boats, covered my mouth so I couldn’t yell at you. He held a gun to my head,” a faint flush was flaring along his cheekbones and he dropped his head to his chest. “When they were sure you were gone, they bundled me into a van and then…” he stopped and swallowed. “Parker knocked me around a bit, revenge for Ojuka, you know? Then I was left in the basement with Kane.”

“Other hand,” Bodie ordered. He stroked the antiseptic cream into the wounds in silence. Finally, he asked, “Did he hurt you, Ray?”

There was so much violence contained in his question.

Doyle shook his head, confused. “He talked. Asked me questions, but he… I don’t know, he acted like we were friends or something,” a shiver ran down his spine. Bodie felt its passage through his palm and his fingers curled protectively around his partner's hands.

“If you don’t want to –“

“I talked, Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was very flat. Shame tolled in every syllable. “I think Kane drugged me. I – I – everything was spinning and I was seeing things, but they weren’t really there and they hurt like… I…”

Bodie placed the tube decisively on the table. He slid onto the sofa and placed his arms around his partner, gripping him tight. “It’s OK, Ray. You were drugged; your mind was all over the place. Besides, what could you have told him? The important thing is that you’re back in one piece.” His lips skimmed Doyle’s cheek, not caring that they were in the CI5 headquarters, not caring that the door wasn’t locked. Doyle wriggled and then managed to slip his arms around Bodie, completing the link.

“You’re just a big softy,” Doyle mumbled into his shoulder, “Why is it I have to get hurt before you show affection?” There was no heat in his accusation.

“There’s the hard shell to get past first,” Bodie reminded him mock-sternly.

Doyle laughed, “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

There was a clatter.

They shot apart and Doyle uttered an oath as he jarred his wrists on Bodie’s back. Bodie jumped up from the sofa, but it was too late.

Susan was gripping the side table as it tipped perilously over to the left. Cheeks burning, she righted it and squared herself up. “Hello, Bodie. Hello, Doyle.”

“How long were you –?” Bodie blurted.

She shrugged, her glasses sliding down her nose. “Not long,” she admitted. “Cowley wants to speak to Doyle.”

Doyle closed his eyes and then directed a finger in her direction, “Susan, you can’t – please don’t –“

“Tell anyone?” Susan replied steadily. Bodie looked away and stared at the wall. “No, your secret’s safe with me.”

Doyle opened his eyes and subjected her to a quick searching glance. To his surprise, there was no curl of the lip; no retreat; no disgust. Susan was smiling, a small, enigmatic grin widening her mouth.

“It’s a shame, though,” she said cheerily, “I’ve won the bet.”

“Bet?” Bodie exclaimed, “What bet?”

Susan looked innocent, “Whether you two were together, of course. I bet in favour of it. Anson owes me a tenner.”

Doyle blinked and dragged a hand through his hair. “What were the odds?”

Susan inclined her head thoughtfully, “two to one that you were.”

“That… we… were,” Doyle repeated slowly, glancing at Bodie.

“That obvious, love?” Bodie drawled. The tension had drained away and he felt the almost irritable urge to giggle.

Susan laughed, “Yes, Bodie. You can see it from space! I’ve got eyes, remember? I was in the police too, you know!” she caught their expressions, “Don’t worry, if you don’t want me to tell, I won’t.”

She turned to leave.

“Thanks,” Doyle called.

Susan turned around, “Besides,” she said, “You two look cute together.”

Then she left chuckling to herself as Bodie and Doyle stared, dumbfounded, at each other.

When they had gotten over the shock, Bodie said, “So Cowley wants to see you.”

Doyle nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Probably wants me to report in.” He pulled a face, “Not sure I want to admit that Parker got the drop on me. Or that we decided to ignore our orders.”

“Cowley’s been acting strangely,” Bodie spoke as if he’d been saving it up. “He panicked, Ray. When he realised that Kane had grabbed you, he… he looked not exactly shocked but resigned. Like he knew something like this was going to happen.”

“Oh?” Doyle gave a half-hearted chuckle, “Didn’t know he cared.” He rose unsteadily from the sofa. “Christ, I need a bath. I stink.”

“No, I mean he really panicked. Kane – I think he and Kane know each other,” Bodie insisted, offering a hand. Doyle waved him off.

“They do. They were in the army together.”

Bodie looked surprised, “How did you know that?”

“Kane. He told me. He and our George were close, I think.” Doyle directed a finger at the door. Hair tousled and shirt hanging greasily, he looked like he’d been living rough for a month. The bruises around his eye were fading slightly and his mouth was set in a firm line. “Cowley won’t tell us the whole story. He never does! It’s something to do with this… this magic.” He spat the word.

“Well, I guess you won’t learn anything sitting around here,” Bodie sighed. “I’m not happy about this, Ray.”

Doyle gave a half-hearted smiled. “Neither am I, sunshine.”

***

Doyle wasn’t surprised to see Cowley standing at his desk, fiddling with his glasses when he pushed open the door. What he was surprised to see was the handsome older woman sitting behind the desk. He frowned, a quick little movement, and tilted his head to one side. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

“I did,” Cowley gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk, “Sit down, Doyle.”

Doyle moved over to the chair, but he didn’t sit. There was such a thing as pride, after all. He saw the woman looking at him and he smiled at her, feeling slightly puzzled why he recognised her. It wasn’t quite his usual devastating fare. “Hello, ma’am.”

“Hello, Mr Doyle. How are you feeling?”

Foreboding sliding in his stomach, Doyle shrugged carefully. “I’ve been better,” he admitted. This woman wasn’t a shrink, was she?

“Ah yes, Doyle this is Elizabeth Walsh. She helped us bring down Dawson, remember?”

“Yeah, how have you been, Miss Walsh?” His smile was genuine this time.

“I’ve been well. Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” Elizabeth sat forward in her chair and placed her pen back on the desk.

“I’m fine,” he replied shortly. Cowley was studying him like he was a scientific specimen, “Sir, why did you want to see me?” Doyle jabbed his finger at his boss, “Why did Kane let me go?”

Cowley didn’t seem fazed by the fury in his words. Instead, he wandered over to his desk and pulled open one of the bottom drawers. He pulled three glasses from the depths and set them on the table. Doyle watched him, his patience slowly ebbing away. Three generous tots of whisky were poured in and then Cowley handed one glass to Elizabeth. Walking towards Doyle, he placed the glass into his agent’s hand. “I think you’re ready for the hard stuff.”

“I’ve been ready for years,” Doyle muttered, sniffing the whisky. He was being paranoid, he knew but whatever drugs Kane had given him had had some brain-fucking strength. At least Cowley looked the right age and there was a solidness to the scene that reassured him. “You still haven’t answered my question, _sir_. What the hell happened? What did Kane give me?” 

“Kane and I made a deal,” the head of CI5 made a great show of checking his drink, “CI5 is not to interfere in his affairs.”

“You are fucking kidding me. I want that bastard. I’m sure he’s the one who killed Marley!”

“Doyle –“

“No! We are not going to let him get away with this!” Doyle snapped. Gesturing heatedly with his drink, he took a step towards Cowley. Amber liquid splashed over the rim and dripped onto the carpet. Cowley winced inwardly. That was a waste of good Scotch. “He murdered Marley and I’m not exactly happy about his hospitality. He drugged me! We need to get that stuff off the streets!”

“You weren’t drugged.”

The quiet words stopped the agent mid-flow. He stared at Cowley uncomprehendingly.

“It had to be drugs,” he said, “Unless I’ve gone mad, of course.”  An acidic laugh forced its way out of him. “I’ve gone crazy, haven’t it?”

Cowley shook his head. “You may want to sit down.” 

Elizabeth Walsh smiled gloomily at Doyle. “This may be hard to believe but…”

“What? Get to the point… please.”

Elizabeth fixed him with a thousand kilowatt gaze. “Magic is real.”

“You’re lying.” The accusation was flung with considerable force. Frustration twisted Doyle’s face. “Magic isn’t real. Jesus Christ!”

“You don’t believe us?” Cowley asked lightly.

“No!”

“Those weren’t drugs, Doyle. You know that.”

“It can’t have been anything else,” Doyle gritted his teeth. “He had a syringe –“

“And you have no track marks,” Cowley replied.

Doyle’s glance was lightning fast. “I never said that.”

Cowley sighed and took a sip of his drink, “You didn’t have to. I saw you check, Doyle.”

“Besides,” Elizabeth placed her full glass on the desk, “We know, Mr Doyle. We know how Kane operates.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

His hands were shaking but whether it was fury or fear, Cowley couldn’t tell.

“How many people have told you about magic in the last few days?” Cowley asked.

Doyle thought for a moment, both hands clutching tightly around the glass. “Three,” he admitted finally.

“How often have you encountered drugs, Mr Doyle?” Elizabeth was regarding him with a steady gaze which only served to rile Doyle further.

“I was a detective constable, Miss Walsh,” Doyle replied sardonically, “I do know a little about drugs.”

“Three people have told you about magic,” she sighed, “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Doyle laughed and took a gulp of the whisky, “Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies.”

Elizabeth stood up and smoothed her skirt down. Doyle deliberately averted his gaze and took another swig. She walked over to him. “Let me prove it to you, please?”

She didn’t give him time to answer. “Pick a memory.”

 

Doyle slumped back in the chair. His lips moved, but he couldn’t quite articulate what he wanted to. The whisky was quickly drained and placed, shakily, beside his foot. Both Cowley and Elizabeth regarded him carefully. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

The memory – it couldn’t have been anything else, he was sure – had been so clear. He’d been about ten, eleven maybe, but everything around him was exactly how he remembered it. The vision, in fact, was clearer and cleaner than any memory.

He could look around and hear the conversations being conducted over his head: what’s more, he could understand them.

It was almost like he’d been transported back in time.

“Do you believe us now, Doyle?” Cowley asked lightly.

Doyle could only nod.

Elizabeth smiled at the agent in what she hoped was a caring manner. “I’m a magic-user. Like Kane. He can create illusions… mess with your mind.”

“What’s… what’s yours then? I was really there, but I knew about it…”

She shrugged and said, “I can move your consciousness into a younger body, I think. It’s like letting people relive moments in their life. I can’t hold it for more than thirty minutes or so, however.”

“Why did you show me?” Doyle croaked. “How can it help?”

Cowley leant forward, placing his hands flat on the desk. He offered Doyle a half smile. “We need to know where Kane took you. It’s likely that’s where he is right now.”

“Surely Kane would have some other hideout,” Doyle answered. His hands were still shaking. “But I suppose he was expecting my head to be so messed up that I wouldn’t be able to tell.” At Cowley’s questioning glance, he gestured to the bruises around his eye. “Parker hit me with the gun and I was blindfolded. Hah, by the time I could think clearly we were already there.”

“I can take you back,” Elizabeth said, “But without the pain. You’ll be as clearheaded as you are now.”

Doyle regarded his empty glass. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had the whisky.”

“Will you do it, Doyle?” Cowley asked.

For a moment Doyle didn’t move. He stared into the middle distance, lips pressed together in a thin, white line. At long last, he nodded.

“Thank you.”

***

An hour and a half later, five more CI5 agents felt like the world had shifted under their feet.

Cowley watched them carefully, hoping that he hadn’t misjudged this. If he lost their support now then the whole operation would fall apart and Kane would be free to wreak havoc on London. “I don’t expect you to be able to take it all in,” he began smoothly, “But it is in your best interests to know about it. Magic is real. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what you are up against.”

Silence reigned. Then Bodie turned to Doyle and raised his eyebrows. Doyle nodded. He still looked a little shell-shocked, but there was a spark in his eyes now. Bodie subsided back into his chair, the telepathy apparently communicating everything he needed to know.

Anson recovered first. His hands scrabbling in his pocket for a cigar, he muttered, “Well, you know what? I’ve heard stranger.”

The head of CI5 relaxed slightly. If Anson was convinced then he could be sure that the others were willing, at least, to accept that they were dealing with something that they hadn’t encountered before. As the chatter started, Cowley called, “No smoking in the ops room, Anson!”

“Sorry,” Anson shoved the cigar back into his trousers, “But I think that I deserve something to calm my nerves, sir.”

“Yeah,” Benny piped up, “Any chance of a Scotch, sir?”

Cowley fixed him with a stern glare and Benny subsided slightly. “This is not a joking matter, Benny.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Magic is real,” Susan repeated softly, “What are we up against, then, sir?” She gestured over at Murphy, “Because if Jadis can do what we think he can, I’m not sure I want to confront him.”

“We have to,” Cowley could feel the normal energy flowing back into the room, “Or else London will fall into the hands of these maniacs.”

“We know where Jadis is,” Doyle said, “And we’ve got a fair idea of where Kane is hiding too.”

Cowley nodded briskly, “I know this is a shock to you and I don’t expect you to fully understand the magnitude of this revelation –“

“I think I might have an idea,” Bodie muttered mutinously.

“But nothing, I repeat, _nothing_ is to be repeated outside these four walls,” Cowley continued as if there had been no interruption, “We are dealing with a threat that is beyond anything we have faced before. Our targets are powerful, magic is all but dead… has been for nearly sixty years.” He jabbed a finger towards the two photographs pinned up on the board, “Kane and Jadis are both threats; however, I believe that we have to confront Jadis first. We’ll leave Kane for later.”

Bodie didn’t miss the slight shudder of his partner nor the flicker of his gaze towards their boss. At the mention of Kane’s name, Doyle paled and Bodie felt his fingers curl into fists. He was sure that Kane was the worse one, but something in Cowley’s stance told him that now was not the time to be pointing that out.

“You six will raid Jadis’ base at two o’clock this afternoon. I want you fully armed. I would prefer it if you can take Jadis alive, but under the circumstances, it may not be advisable. If the raid goes south you shoot to kill. If it gets any worse than that, you retreat immediately. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The chorus was solemn.

Cowley continued, meeting each agent’s gaze in turn, “Go to the armoury and each of you check out a bulletproof vest – Bodie, I don’t care if you think it slows you down, you will wear it – then I want you to take at least two cars to this address. Jadis is dangerous, he has mind powers that are possibly greater than Kane’s himself. Do not underestimate him. He may look like a kid, but he is far from it.”

There was the clatter of chairs as the six agents rose to leave. Cowley nodded at them, his heart contracting. Was he about to send them to their deaths? Was there anything else he could give them? “Good luck,” he said.

Murphy grinned at him. “We’ll be fine, sir. Besides, I always loved the _X-Men_.”

“You read comics?” Anson snorted. Even Susan hid a disapproving grin behind her hand.

Murphy looked offended, “Hey, I always knew it would come in handy someday,” he protested.

“I really wonder about you sometimes, Murphy,” Doyle added, shaking his head sadly.

Murphy managed not to rise to the bait.

***

The rain was lashing down when the agents drew up in their three cars. Jadis’ base was a range of warehouses; stubby, dark shapes against the driving weather. Bodie slowed his Capri to a sedate stop, the windscreen wipers flashing back and forth in a vain attempt to keep the glass clear. “What do you think?” he asked quietly.

Doyle leant over from the passenger seat and reached for the radio. “Dunno. I reckon that Jadis or Saul or whatever he calls himself will be in the main building.”

“There’ll be guards,” Anson drawled from his casual position across the back seats, “Bet on it.”

“Well, obviously,” Doyle retorted, “If Jadis is running a protection racket, he’s not going to be sitting prettily alone in here, is he?” Thumbing the radio, Doyle said, “4.5 to 6.2. How’s it looking?”

“Pretty clear, 4.5,” Murphy’s voice was a little distorted, but the heaviness was relayed well enough.

“Shall we move in?”

“Might as well. Have you contacted Alpha One?”

“Not yet,” Doyle answered, his gaze sweeping the surrounding buildings, “Stay on your toes, eh, Murph?”

“Will do, 4.5. Take it slow; we don’t want anyone to reach Jadis without back-up.”

“Amen to that,” Doyle’s voice was harsh. Beside him, Bodie flicked the safety off of his weapon.

“Rain doesn’t stop play, then?” he asked, only half-jokingly.

Flashing his partner a quick grin, Doyle replied, “Nah, where’d be the fun in that?”

“When you two lovebirds are finished…” Anson grumbled, “Shall we get a move on?” He was too intent on checking his weapon to notice his companions’ momentary tension. “I do have a girl I’m wanting to get home to tonight.”

“Good luck with that,” Bodie said mournfully. “Just don’t get your head blown off, Anson.”

“Not planning to.”

“Yeah,” Doyle warmed to Bodie’s theme, “Just think, you’d never get to smoke one of those disgusting cigars again. Surprised you haven’t keeled over with lung cancer.”

“Ha, bloody ha,” came the response. “You’re one to talk, Doyle. You keep your hair that long and it won’t be long before someone decides to take advantage of it in a fight.”

Bodie didn’t wait for them to finish their argument, instead, shoving open his door. The rain was cold against his skin and he was glad that his adrenaline was more than adequate for shutting the response away. Doyle and Anson climbed out after him, weapons clutched in their hands. Both were serious now – deadly serious.

It was Bodie who led the way, moving slightly awkwardly under the unfamiliar weight of the vest. Doyle and Anson fanned out behind him, covering his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodie spotted Murphy leading Susan and Benny through the maze of warehouses; they flitted in and out of his vision like ghosts in the rain. The warehouses seemed empty, shut up with their precious goods inside. There was a strange stench, however, a mix of animal musk and blood.

They approached the central house cautiously, six hearts hammering out a drumbeat of their own to compete with the rain. The house was stubby, one floor and more of a shack than anything. Bodie gestured silently. As one, the rest of the team moved to encircle the house, each checking that they had covered all available entrances and exits. Bodie drew himself close to the house, aiming his gun at the front door. Over the crashing of the rain, he could hear faint murmuring from inside. Doyle glanced over at him and held up four fingers. Bodie nodded and relayed the message. The drumbeat inside him rose steadily, rising to a crescendo. He did one last check and then with an explosive uncoiling of muscle, kicked down the door.

One man went for his weapon and Benny put a bullet in his forehead before he even finished the manoeuvre. “Freeze!” he yelled, “Put your hands on your head!”

“Do as he says,” Murphy snapped, “We’re CI5.”

The room they were in was small; there was a crudely made desk and a cheap plastic lamp placed on it. Two of the remaining men were tall, brawny. Hired muscle, Bodie assumed, recognising the gang tattoo adorning their necks.

But it was the third man – boy – that he addressed, “Saul James, alias Celeb Jadis?”

“Jadis is no mere alias,” the boy replied hotly. “It is my name, my true name!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Doyle replied with an irritating grin, “You can remind the judge and then maybe if you’re a good boy then maybe he’ll let you change it by deed poll.”

Jadis swung around, his vehement gaze fixed on Doyle. “You mock me? Me?” His voice was high and nasally. At the edge of hearing, Bodie heard someone suppress a snigger. God, was this kid really the terror Cowley thought he was?

On the other hand, he was the one who had killed Hume…

“Don’t take it so personally,” Anson drawled, “He mocks everyone.”

“Oh, equality is very important to me,” although Doyle smiled, Bodie knew he was primed to kill.

Benny started to move forward towards the henchmen. “Don’t try anything, boys, unless you want a bullet in your brain.”

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with!” Jadis screamed and stamped his foot. White-blond hair flopped over his face, making him look even more than a spoiled teenager. “I’ll kill you all!”

“Tell it to the judge,” Benny swept away the henchmen’s guns and began to reach for his handcuffs, “But we have you surrounded, Jadis, so I suggest you surrender and come quietly.”

“Never! Kill them!”

The henchmen exchanged a look with each other and then at Susan who was gathering up their weapons.

“With what, boss?” one asked wearily, “Our bare ‘ands?”

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Jadis shrieked. He stepped back, away from the agents and shut his eyes. Bodie and Doyle glanced at each other, dull dread bubbling in their guts. The two henchmen on either side of Jadis were backing away, terror clear on their faces. Hume had been decapitated…

At that moment all the lights flickered, plunging them into darkness – all except Jadis. The air around him glowed indigo and crackled like a thunderstorm.

“Get out!” 

 

Doyle flung himself out of the way just in time as a beam of light ruptured the wood behind his head. Shards rained down on him and, shielding his head with his arm, he looked up. There was a hole behind Jadis, it looked like a tear in reality and glimmered with energy that Doyle never wanted to be able to name. He was frozen in place, his gun held loosely in his hand, terror gripping him like a vice.

Something was emerging from the portal; the stench of wet fur knocked him back two paces. He could see two paws; ghost, goblin, _Hound of the Baskervilles_ green. A heavily-furred head was forming with a savage jaw, two bright, intelligent eyes and large twitching ears. The creature was huge; it filled most of the remaining space and the animal deep inside Doyle cowered at the honed muscles, the long gleaming fangs and the black, bloodstained claws. He stumbled back again, colliding with the remains of the wall. Dimly, he heard someone call his name.

Then his training managed to override his instincts. Doyle flung up his arm and squeezed the trigger of his gun, his bullets striking the nightmare in front of him squarely in the chest.

Nothing happened.

Doyle had a brief second of confusion before the entirety of the wolf-like beast smashed into the wall behind him. He barely avoided the flashing fangs, his legs throwing him to the right without bothering to run the action by his brain first.

A hand grabbed his arm and dragged him upright, “What the fuck were you doing, you dozy bastard?” Anson shoved Doyle through the undamaged window, “Do you want to get _fucking_ eaten?”

The creature snarled and whipped around, bounding through the too-small gap. The wood around it yielded depressingly easily. It landed lightly in front of the two agents, fur glowing with a crystalline blue light and its eyes coals from Hell itself. Anson raised his weapon.

“Bullets don’t work!” Doyle screamed at him through the driving rain.

Anson’s finger contracted anyway. The bullets clearly struck the creature, strips of green fur tearing away from its face and shoulders. There was no blood. But, just as quickly, the wounds closed over with no evidence that they had ever been opened. The creature flinched and short howls of pain escaped it, but still it advanced towards the hapless agents. They could both see the muscles coiling, readying to spring, but they knew that they would never be swift enough to avoid it…

A yell split the air, accented with the retort of a gun. The creature jerked sideways. Doyle and Anson scrambled out of harm’s way, panting heavily. The creature had lost interest in the two and was instead stalking menacingly after Bodie who was emptying clip after clip into its furry sides and seemingly roaring every war cry/profanity he could think of. Just as a huge paw was about to swipe across Bodie’s legs, Murphy leapt in to pepper the creature’s rear, sending it whirling to face this new attacker. Doyle took the creature’s right flank, concentrating on inconveniencing it. Benny climbed onto a pile of crates, giving support from above and was quickly joined by Susan.

“Get back to the cars!” he bawled at his fellow agents.

“Are you crazy?” Doyle shrieked back at him, “You want us –“ he rolled to avoid the snapping jaws and put a bullet in the creature’s eye “- to get into a metal sandwich?”

“Look out!” Bodie yelled.

His warning came just in time. Susan threw herself behind the stacked crates, scarcely shielding herself from a hail of bullets. Jadis and his henchmen had joined the fight and they were now providing a cover for the nightmare. A bullet struck Murphy in the side. Spun by the force, he slipped in a puddle and crashed to the ground. The wolf-dog bounded over; lower jaw almost scraping the ground in its eagerness to devour the winded man. Both Bodie and Doyle reacted, their twin fire confusing the creature enough that it skidded over Murphy and turned to face them. Anson raced over and hauled Murphy to his feet, “This way!” he called, shoving his friend towards one of the warehouses, “You alright?”

“Yeh,” Murphy looked like he was going to be sick, “Bloody Cowley knew we’d need bulletproof vests…!”

The wolf-dog snarled. It began to pad towards Bodie and Doyle. The stench of it hit them like a physical blow. Somewhere in the distance, Bodie could hear Jadis gleefully urging the beast on. “Ready, Ray?”

“Born that way,” Doyle snapped off two shots – right, left – and then ducked under Bodie’s gunshots to the creature’s legs. Then they were sprinting towards the cover that Anson and Murphy had disappeared into.

They turned into a narrow corridor of heavy crates. Benny, Murphy and Anson were huddled at the end of it. “What the hell?” Bodie exclaimed, “This is a fucking dead end, Anson!”

“Sue me,” the response was tense.

“Is there another way out?” Doyle asked as he turned to help Benny support Murphy.

Benny pointed towards a gap, “We can get out there –“

As he spoke, a hail of bullets sent them scrabbling backwards. They all glanced up to see the creature slowly prowling down the alley towards them. Jadis and his two henchmen strode beside it, their weapons dangling by their sides. There wasn’t really any need when they had a loaded wolf-nightmare. 

“What a shame!” Jadis called, “I would have preferred a more challenging hunt.” As Murphy raised his weapon, he continued, “Oh, don’t bother. The fae aren’t going to be hurt by your worthless bullets. You might as well give up,” he paused again and chuckled, “Now you will be eaten. Who knows? It might be fairly painless…”

Bodie stepped in front of Murphy and Doyle, planting his feet firmly. There was nowhere to run with the wolf-dog advancing on them. “Where’s Susan?” he hissed.

“She had an idea!”

“What kind of idea?” Bodie demanded.

Benny gave a helpless little shrug, “A good one, I hope.”

Their attackers were getting closer and closer. Bodie blinked the water out of his eyes, his gun still directed at the wolf-dog. He wasn’t going to die here… he wasn’t going to die here…

He wasn’t going to let Doyle die here. He felt Doyle moved to his side and saw his partner’s stance; both hands wrapped around his gun, feet planted apart.

Bodie took a breath and prepared to fight.

 

The bullet came out of nowhere. It slashed past Bodie’s cheek, the displaced air causing him to whirl. Did Jadis have more heavies surrounding them?

But the bullet hadn’t been fired from in front of him, but rather from over his shoulder. Piercing screams sent Bodie spinning back to face their attackers. His jaw dropped and adrenaline surged through him like a tidal wave.

The wolf-dog was screaming and jerking from side-to-side. It glowed brighter than before, the rain evaporating into hissing white-green steam as it hit its fur. It reminded Bodie of a dog he’d once seen in Africa, driven mad by rabies. Just like that dog, the monster in front of them was frothing at the mouth and howling. Looking past it, Bodie saw why.

Jadis was swaying gently back and forth. His eyes were glazed, his fingers twitching. The rain pelted him, accenting his pale, pale hair and face.

There was a neat red hole in the exact centre of his forehead.

The corpse of the crime lord pitched forwards and fell with the crackle of breaking bones onto the concrete. The two heavies glanced over at the body and stepped back. Obviously, they had no loyalty towards their ex-boss as they immediately began to back away down the alley. It was now two against six after all.

“Nice shot, Susan,” Murphy managed.

Bodie glanced behind him. Susan was standing on the top of the crates they had been backed up against. “That’s what I thought,” she said triumphantly, “Jadis was controlling that thing, wasn’t he? Surely –“

Her voice was cut off by a bubbling scream. The agents spun back around.

One of the heavies was sprawled on the ground, blood fountaining from a huge gash in his chest. The wolf-dog was bent over his body, muzzle buried deep in the gore. The second heavy screamed an unintelligible curse, but even as he turned to run the creature was upon him.

Bodie didn’t wait to see what happened. He grabbed Doyle’s arm in one hand and Murphy’s in the other, “Go!” he snapped, “Run!” Murphy gave him a dull glance as if he was asleep, but Doyle reacted quicker to the clear fear in Bodie’s voice and began to sprint for the exit. Anson, Murphy and Bodie followed, pure terror lengthening their strides.

“Over here!” Susan appeared from behind the boxes, gesturing wildly towards one of the warehouses, “it’s open! Get inside!” 

“Go!” Bodie shoved the other agents in front of him, counting them in, “Susan, Murphy, Anson, Doyle, Benn – where’s Benny?”

A scream answered him. Bodie glanced back, squinting through the downpour. Blood drained from his face as he realised that the huddled shape under the paws of the wolf-dog was his colleague. For a moment he hesitated, Benny was likely already dead and running back out would be suicide –

The curly-haired whirlwind that barged him out of the way made up his mind for him. Drawing his weapon, Bodie sprinted after his partner. The smell of blood hit him as he approached, mixing with the scent of rain and rotting wood. The guns flashed as both men emptied their rounds into the creature. It screamed and reared back, crimson water running down its fur and dripping from between its curving fangs. Doyle reached Benny first, he crouched and hauled Benny upright. The agent was swaying, eyes closed, water dripping down his face. The entirety of his T-shirt and jeans were red with gore and they could see the deep black spreading from his side and lower gut, where the creature’s claws had caught him. “Help me, Bodie,” Doyle gasped, “Take his legs.”

Bodie was about to ask whether they should really move someone so seriously injured before his brain caught up with him, “Got ‘im. Come on!”

At a waddling, awkward half-run, Bodie and Doyle carried Benny between them towards the warehouse. Without looking back, Bodie knew that the wolf-dog was recovering from their onslaught.

In a few seconds, it would pounce.

In a few seconds, all three of them would be dead.

Never had five metres seemed so far.

Bodie could almost feel the monster’s breath on his back. Gritting his teeth, he silently cursed his honourable partner. The creature snarled and it sounded like thunder and death.

At that moment, a hail of bullets rained down around them. The wolf-dog’s snarls told the despairing agents that it was being driven back. Bodie thought he could hear Anson urging them on.

One final push…

They threw themselves over the threshold, cradling their injured friend between them. Murphy slammed the door behind them.

“Well done,” he panted, “Now, do you two heroes want to make yourselves useful and find something to barricade this door?”

 

"I don't suppose," Anson began slowly as the sound of splintering wood drifted up to them, "that anyone thought to bring a couple of Armalites?"

As one, the rest of the agents swung round to stare at him. Finally, Benny, propped against the flakily-painted wall with his blood dripping through Murphy's fingers, managed, "No, sorry. I left it at home with my rocket launcher and three Halifax Bombers."

Bodie glared at Benny, "You know, I didn't think you knew sarcasm, Benny."

Benny gave him the two fingers.

"Oh very mature," Susan snapped, "Now is not the time to be arguing. We need a way out of here." A snarl rang out from beneath their feet, drowning out her words. Bodie flinched as he heard something shred explosively. It sounded like a chair. He glanced up at Doyle who was framed in the doorway, guarding the stairs. "Ray...?"

 "Oh look," Doyle said with a sort of manic cheerfulness, "it's got through the first barricade already."

Susan shook her head, “We don’t have the time for this. It’ll be up here in a few minutes. We need to move.”

“Where?” Murphy demanded, “We’re on the top floor, there’s nowhere else to go.”

“There must be!”

“Who died and made you Queen?” Anson challenged.

Susan rounded on him like an avenging angel, “I don’t see anyone else taking charge here!”

“You won’t be able to get anywhere fast with me,” Benny murmured, “Maybe you should…”

“Oh shut up, Benny,” Bodie snapped, “Doyle and I nearly got killed rescuing you. You owe us.”

Another chair smashed downstairs and as one, the agents winced.

“That’s it,” Bodie muttered. He strode across the room, scanning every cobwebbed shadow. Below his feet, he could feel the sheer power of the creature throwing itself against their makeshift barricades. Inspiration suddenly seized him and he sprinted across the far side of the room.

“Bodie? Where are you going?” Murphy asked.

Bodie didn’t answer; he just shoved several boxes marked ‘fragile’ out of the way. A blinding grin transfigured his face and he stuck his head out of the window, squinting through the rain. “That’ll work.”

 

It took three of them to manhandle Benny across the gap and, despite obviously attempting to grit his teeth and bear it; the injured agent couldn’t help but whimper like a child. “Hurts…” he kept repeating, “It really, really hurts…”

“Yeah, we know, Benny,” Anson growled, “Do’ya think you could try losing a little weight before our next mission? You’re heavy!”

“Shut up and hurry up, Anson,” Susan had Benny by the arms and her words were muffled by her panting. Murphy, as the tallest, was the one supporting Benny across the half-metre gap. Hands gripping like grim death, the agents moved their friend to the next point of safety – fragile and temporary as it might be.

Bodie and Doyle stood guard at the window, watching the stairs. Everything had gone quiet below. Sweat shone on their faces and the oppressive lack of noise made Doyle’s heart feel like it was deafening everyone around him. “Do you think it’s gone?” he whispered.

Bodie shook his head, “Nah,” he replied with a shaky laugh, “The way our luck’s been? It’ll come bounding out of the darkness, just you wait and see.”

“Oh great. Bodie –”

“I already know.” Bodie smiled at him and a wave of relief washed over Doyle. “Same to you,” he added quietly.

“Are you two just going to stand there?” Murphy called. “Get in here! Everyone else is through!”

Bodie grabbed Doyle’s arm and propelled him towards the window, “Age before beauty, sunshine.”

“Hey!” Doyle was torn between the knowledge that he had to get moving and that he was exposing Bodie to the monster by going first. “Can you be selfish for once in your life? You first!” 

“I’ve got the gun,” Bodie reminded him, “So get your sorry arse over there before I fucking kick it!”

“Fine!” Doyle wiggled through the window, reaching across the black, rain-lashed void for the opposite window. Hands grabbed his forearms and dragged him painfully across, scraping his hip along the wood. “Watch it!”

“Just be fucking grateful!”

Doyle shifted himself in the rest of the way, fell over the sill, and then hauled himself back up to his feet. He leant over and reached out for Bodie, “Come on, then!”

Bodie flashed him a grin and started to move towards his partner, twisting through the narrow gap.

His hand stretched out towards his partner –

The darkness behind Bodie was blasted into green. Bodie yelled in pain and panic, kicking out. Doyle grabbed for his partner’s hand.

“BODIE!”

The last thing he saw of Bodie was the faint apology dying on his lips.

Then the wolf-dog wrenched Bodie back into the darkness. 

 

“No!” Doyle stared, helplessly, into the black square. His whole body was shaking – with rage or grief, he couldn’t tell.

“Doyle, come on,” Susan snatched the back of his jacket and said, “We have to go –“

He didn’t say a word. He had to move fast. Doyle spun, dislodging Susan’s grip. With half an eye, he scanned the room for a weapon – a knife, a length of wood, anything –

His fingers closed about a loose pipe left on the ground in preparation for renovation.

“Doyle? What are you doing?” Murphy lunged for his friend, fully prepared to knock him unconscious. He could see the red mist descending upon Doyle, robbing him of any sense of self-preservation. “You’ll die!” Doyle dodged out of the way and, with a roar born of adrenaline, leapt through the window and after Bodie.

He landed like a cat, heart hammering and blood roaring in his ears. He spotted Bodie immediately; he was pinned underneath the wolf-dog. It was bending down, jaws open. Doyle began to run, hefting the pipe above his head.

“Hey! Ugly!”

The wolf-dog spun, teeth bared. 

“Leave – him – alone!” 

The pipe smashed it across the face. Foetid blood sprayed. Doyle, unbalanced by the force of his swing, staggered. He skidded onto his face, bruising his shoulder. He started to scramble to his feet, hands scrabbling for his weapon.

The creature snarled, crouched and then sprang into the air, determined to rid itself of this stupid little prey animal –

Bodie yelled as the entirety of the creature landed on top of his partner. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see the teeth flash as the wolf-dog claimed its hunting prize.

A near silence ruled the room and Bodie cautiously opened his eyes. The creature was writhing, but it was in pain and not in triumph. Even as he was watching, the wolf-dog gave a final whimper and lay still. Black blood coated its face and Bodie realised that the twisted shape jutting out of its head was some kind of pole or pipe: it had been driven through the creature’s jaw and head, smashing bone and brain in equal measure.

“Ray…?” he whispered, “Ray?”

Bodie hauled himself to his knees, wincing as his back protested, and began to pull himself towards the corpse.

He didn’t want to see, but it was unimaginable not to at least check.

“Ray?”

One paw moved.

Bodie halted, staring at the appendage in question. The thing was dead, wasn’t it?

Then a very human hand thrust its way out from under the fur.

“Ray!” Bodie rushed over and began to heave his whole body weight against the corpse. The hand waved about, digging for a purchase against the wooden boards. Bodie was laughing hysterically and calling his partner every name he could think of.

Finally, he managed to prop the beast up on one shoulder, grip Doyle’s hand and drag him out from underneath. “You stupid bastard! You stupid, stupid –“

Doyle shut him up by grabbing Bodie and kissing him full on the lips. For a brief second of shock, Bodie simply stood there and accepted it, but sheer relief overcame that and he answered with a kiss of his own.

He was alive. Doyle was alive and breathing and apart from being covered in black, sticky blood, he seemed to be alright.

“God, Bodie,” Doyle said as he broke the kiss, “Never scare me like that again, you hear me?”

Bodie laughed, “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Bodie pulled up his shirt, “It grabbed the back of the vest, not me,” his face creased, “Jesus, Benny! We have to get back there.”

“Bodie! Doyle!” Murphy clattered through the window, falling inside in his haste. “Are you OK?”

They nodded breathlessly. “It’s dead,” Doyle called. The adrenaline rush was leaving him now, making him shaky and weak, “its dead.”

Murphy padded past them and, kneeling, examined the corpse. Presently, his face split into a huge grin and he began to giggle. “Do you know what you did?” he asked Doyle.

Doyle shook his head.

Murphy pointed at the pipe protruding from the creature’s head. “Iron,” he said, “The fae can only be killed with cold iron.”

In the distance, sirens began to sing.

***

Cowley left the hospital pale-faced. Benny was in a critical, but stable condition according to the doctors, but seeing the helplessness of one of his agents shook him right to the core. This was worse than a shooting; the doctors were sure that Benny could lose his spleen if he survived and he’d be left with a hideous scar. It was only the bulletproof vest that had saved the man from having his guts ripped out through his ribcage.

An icy realisation slammed into Cowley like a car. He’d sent them in. They had only been following his orders. He could have lost them all – he nearly had lost them all.

Benny, Bodie, Doyle, Susan, Murphy and Anson: six agents, six agents nearly murdered by a nightmare that they know next to nothing about.

And it was his fault. They were too new to this world. They should never have been exposed to it.

The answer was as clear as a bell.

 

“Where’s the old man?” Doyle asked, glancing around the darkness of the hospital carpark. Hands jammed deep in his pockets, he sauntered over to where he and Bodie had parked their car.

Bodie shrugged. “His car is gone,” he said, “The Cow’s probably just gone back to HQ.”

“I don’t think George would be pleased to hear you call him that.” Both men turned to see Elizabeth Walsh walking towards them.

“I think he knows,” Bodie answered easily, “What are you doing here?”

“I was coming to see how your friend was doing,” Elizabeth looked distracted, her face drawn in the dim sunlight.

“Oh, do you know where Cowley is?” Doyle asked, “Because I thought he was your lift…”

Elizabeth nodded stiffly. “He was. But he just drove off.” She gave them a resigned look.

Realisation dawned.

“He’s not going to HQ,” Doyle said slowly.

Elizabeth shook her head.

“The stupid bastard!”

“Where’s he gone?” Bodie asked sharply, “Miss Walsh – he hasn’t, has he?”

“Don’t be stupid, Bodie, of course he has,” Doyle shook his fist at the idiocy of people in general and elderly Scottish bosses in particular. “Of course. He can’t let it go, can he? It’s like Quinn all over again!”

“Except,” Bodie answered him with a curl of his lip, “This time our Quinn has magical powers.”

Doyle pulled his R/T out of his coat and began frantically giving orders into it. “He can’t have much of a head start on us,” he muttered, “If we did anything like this he’d have our heads.”

Bodie laughed bitterly, “Do as I say, not as I do.”

***

The structure was as tall as the Tower of Babel and just as flimsy.

George Cowley kept his fingers wound tightly around the butt of his gun as he stared up at the barrier he had to climb.

Somewhere, up near the sky, Kane waited for him.

He felt calmer than he thought he would. Perhaps he had made the right decision: this was his fight and no one else’s. He was outnumbered and outgunned – but when had he ever faced fair odds?

An ironic smile twitched his lips; was he walking to his death after so many years of evading it by the skin of his teeth? Was this to be his final blaze of glory? He hoped not, but a little flutter in his heart told him that he was being a fool, a suicidal fool.

“Hello, sir.”

He swung around and barked, “What are you doing here?”

Doyle tilted his head to one side, “We’re just picking up a few tips,” he said lightly, “You know, how to storm an enemy stronghold singlehandedly.”

“We thought it would come in useful,” Bodie added with a lifted eyebrow.

“You damned fools! You have no idea what you’re walking into…” Cowley trailed off and looked past his two best agents. Slowly he realised that behind them, like an honour guard stood Anson, Murphy and Susan. Their faces were carefully blank with small, faint smiles. 

“I think I do, at least a little bit,” Doyle interrupted him, gesturing first to his bruised face and then to the raw skin around his wrists. “We all have some idea.”

“No one was forced,” Murphy reassured his boss, “We volunteered.”

Bodie nodded. “You can’t do this alone, sir. It is suicide and, I have to say, I quite enjoy working for you.”

Cowley opened his mouth, quite prepared to curse them all to hell for their foolishness when the realisation of what was happening stopped him. What was he doing? Throwing away his life for the slim chance of revenge? A swell of – fatherly – warmth spread through him and he couldn’t help but wonder at the agents standing in front of him. He would never admit that they were the only children he had ever had: he would never tell them that each and every death scarred his heart and he took as much pleasure from their success as they did, but here they were. This was true loyalty: they’d seen what magic could do and, not three hours later, were prepared to plunge once more into the fray. For him. For London. They had been trained well… too well?

What had he created in these men and women? What were they? Were they soldiers? Protectors? Or had he warped them beyond all recognition in his drive to have a Britain clean and smelling of roses? Who had they been? Who were they now?

“We stick together,” he finally ordered, feeling the familiarity calm him. “No one goes off alone. Kane can use illusions, but there are tell-tale signs if you know what to look for.”

“Everything smells silver,” Doyle volunteered. When everyone else stared at him, he elaborated, “It, uh, crosses your senses. Everything feels mixed up. It feels real the way a dream does.”

Cowley nodded. “We go armed,” he said, “I’d rather take Kane alive, but everyone else is expendable. But think before you shoot – Kane could make us shoot each other in the belief that we’re fighting his men.”

That made them step back, made the blood drain from their faces. But Cowley could see the determination in their eyes. There was a debt to be repaid: Hume’s murder had been avenged, but that still left Marley’s death; Doyle’s kidnap; his subsequent torture and the hundreds of ghosts that had stalked Cowley for years.

“Let’s do some social climbing, shall we?” Bodie asked.

***

Each floor was almost a disappointment. They opened up to reveal only dusty boxes and floor space. Cowley was almost beginning to doubt Doyle’s directions. He had been blindfolded, after all. Maybe he had missed a turning?

However, there was a feeling, a heavy scent to air that only existed in the brain that convinced him otherwise.

Kane was watching them and waiting to strike.

The tension was almost unbearable.

Cowley could feel his heart thudding in his chest, each thump a question: when, when, when…?

 

So they should have been ready for the attack.

They were on the second highest floor and perhaps half-lulled by the lack of resistance. Bodie led the way, his gun snouted. Doyle followed him like a shadow, matching his partner’s every movement.

The heat hit them full on, the stink of smoke filling their lungs. Bodie reared back.

Fire.

Beside him, Doyle raised his weapon and tried to cull the flutter of fear in his stomach. This couldn’t be real. Shapes moved in the flames, changing and shifting like the pictures he had searched for as a child in bonfires. Demons with long arms of flames swung for them. Automatically, he ducked and rolled, hearing the swearing from the other members of the team as they reacted. Had there been a warning? Had he been too distracted?

Illusions, that’s what he had to remember. Kane could only do illusions –

Only illusions?

And illusions couldn’t hurt, right?

A scream of pain made him turn. What Doyle next saw would haunt his nightmares for weeks to come.

Bodie was on the ground, flames licking up his jacket, hair dancing above his head. Doyle rushed forwards, tearing off his own jacket and throwing it over his partner. The flames rose up to burn him too. The agony was unimaginable, but he forced himself not to let go. He’d never heard Bodie scream like this before and he knew he could never forget it. The smell of cooking flesh assaulted his senses and it took over his whole being. No!

The skin on his hands and arms was blistering, peeling off and the pain was so intense and sharp that Doyle didn’t know if he could hold on to consciousness much longer. The coat didn’t seem to be doing anything. “Hang on, Bodie,” he managed, “Hang on!”

Someone wrenched Doyle off of Bodie. “Go! Go!”

“But Bodie’s -!” He saw Cowley; made faceless by flames, haul Bodie to his feet, heedless of the fires burning his coat.

“This isn’t real!” he growled, “It isn’t real.”

“But –“ Cowley wasn’t listening. His gaze was focused on the opposite side of the room.

“Move!” he yelled, shoving Doyle into a corner and into a patch of dancing flame. Doyle gritted his teeth, reaching back for his partner’s hand. Sticky blood covered his fingers and Bodie gasped in pain. The wetness of Bodie’s skin couldn’t be an illusion; it was too real…

Then an explosion rattled his bones, followed by the sharp retort of a gun.

 

He blinked and opened his eyes to see a room mangled by a grenade blast. Doyle sat upright, rubbing a hand across his face. The image of Bodie burning rose in his mind and immediately he leant over and vomited over the floor.

Still retching, he glanced around to see Susan and Anson looking at him with concern. “Bodie,” he gasped, “Where’s…?”

“He’s OK,” Susan reassured him. “It was just an illusion.”

“He… I… we were burning,” Doyle whispered, “It felt so real… again. What happened?”

It was Anson who answered, a darkly triumphant grin splitting his features, “Two of Kane’s heavies attacked us. The illusion was supposed to distract us,” he spat, “While they threw a grenade in here.”

Doyle grabbed for his gun, “Where are they?”

“They’re both dead. We only have to deal with Kane now.”

Almost in a daze, Doyle climbed to his feet. He wondered across the room towards the two bodies on the ground, his mind spinning.

Bodie intercepted him, but he said nothing. A look was enough to know that he remembered too, remembered the experience of burning.

Doyle leant over and checked the corpses, already knowing that they were both dead. The living tended to have more chest. Parker’s eyes were open and glassy: Doyle briefly wondered if he would see his own reflection. A part of him knew that he shouldn’t be sorry for Parker’s death – he had been a bully and a sadist to boot – but at the same time, there was some sense of heaviness in his chest.

“Good riddance to him,” he heard Bodie growl, “He deserved this.”

He found himself saying, “We’re all human.”

“Yeah, sure. He wanted to, what was it?” There was a cruel cast to Bodie’s features as he imitated Parker’s accent, “‘Find out what made you tick?’ He was a bastard, Doyle. He would have cut you open without a second thought, and why? You punched him when he was trying to kill you!”

“Yeah, he was.” Doyle curled his fingers around his weapon, “We’ve got work to do, don’t we?”

The two agents looked up as one. One more door. Cowley was waiting by the door, his gun drawn. He stared at the wood as if he expected it to transform into something. The agents readied themselves.

One more door.

***

They burst out onto the roof; their training taking over from their misgivings. They arrayed themselves along the rooftop, the window howling plaintively around them. The sky was grey like the shawl of a dead man and seemed to stretch on forever.

Kane stood at the edge of the building, hands clasped behind him and seemingly watching the dark clouds roll past.

“Kane! Turn around!”

He did so slowly, smiling serenely. “Hello, George,” he said.

“Adam Kane, you are under arrest for the murder of John Marley and numerous other offences including kidnapping and false imprisonment. Are you going to come quietly or not?” Cowley demanded, raising his voice over the wind.

Kane just kept smiling. “It’s very beautiful up here, don’t you think?”

“That’s immaterial,” Cowley retorted, “Do you understand the charges that I’m levelling against you?”

“Marley knew too much,” Kane said with a shrug, “I was acting in the best interests of the Magic Act of 1901. I was preventing the general public from finding out the truth.”

“Murder is murder, Kane. No matter what the reasons.”

"George, George, George," Kane said, shaking his head, "You think you're better than me? You think only you are justified? You fight evil, George, and you say that it's for the Greater Good. The end always justifies the means, doesn't it?" he paused and stroked his lip, not caring that five agents had guns directed at his head. "I fought evil too; Saul was a monster, an animal. He slaughtered one of your agents. If you'd just stayed out young Hume would still be alive."

"He knew the risks," Cowley responded, "They all do. Now are you coming quietly, Kane, or do we have to shoot you?"

Kane lifted his eyebrows, "They knew the risks? No, no, I don't think they did, George. Look at them. They are children stepping into a world of monsters. That's all we ever were to the families of Cowley and Quincey and the Ives, monsters from a bedtime story needing to be destroyed."

"That's not true and you know it, Kane."

"Really? I know my history."

"You called Saul James a monster," Bodie called, "Just because you weren't as messy doesn't make you any better."

Kane laughed and folded his arms, "Look, a conscience. I'm sure that those are a rare commodity among mercenaries, William Bodie." When Bodie started he explained, "Your friend there talked. Told me what I needed to know," he made a mock half-bow in Doyle's direction, "Thank you so much, Raymond."

"You bastard," Bodie and Doyle spoke at the same time.

Kane smiled again. "Ah, friendship. Or not? No, you're not friends. Did you know, George, that you number two sodomites among you?"

There was a rustle. It was so unexpected that Kane nearly jumped.

He turned to stare.

Anson had one hand on his gun and the other deep in his pocket. Kane's calm expression was creased with confusion.

"Here," Anson shoved something into Susan's hand. "You know I'm broke now?"

"Thank you so much. Boys? I will be collecting later."

There was a stunned silence from both Cowley and Kane.

Finally, Kane asked, "What... what did you just give her?"

Anson looked innocently at him. "Oh, I owe her a tenner. I lost a bet."

"You... lost...? You bet - ?"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Doyle said, "We were just as surprised as you."

“Yeah,” Bodie added. “I thought it would be much higher.”

Anger flared in Kane’s eyes. Before anyone could make a move, he flung out his hand.

Doyle took one step, staggered, dropped his gun and, with an expression of utter confusion, collapsed like his strings had been cut.

 

“Doyle!” Bodie started forwards, only to be stopped by Susan.

“Look,” she said quietly. Kane had drawn a gun from his pocket: it was a small one, but any gun would do considerable damage if it was pressed against someone’s head.

“I’m so sorry about this, George,” Kane said smilingly, “But I have to resort to a cliché.” He grabbed the scruff of Doyle’s neck and hauled him upright. Doyle obeyed like a sleepwalker, allowing Kane to pull him back towards the edge of the building. His eyes were closed and his arms hung limply by his sides. A rough breeze whipped both Kane and Doyle’s hair and clothes, making it seem like they were standing in the centre of a hurricane. 

Every so often, Bodie could see Doyle twitch.

“Let him go,” Bodie snarled. It wasn’t even as if Kane was using his partner as a shield; Bodie was confident enough in his abilities that he could just…

“Stand down, Bodie,” Cowley sounded angry but resigned. Bodie glanced over at his boss, seeing the heavy lines across his face. “They’re connected. You shoot Kane and Doyle will die too.”

“What?”

“Well done for remembering, George!” Kane was playing with the gun, twirling it in his fingers. “I thought I might have to give a tedious lecture about exactly what I was doing and how it worked…” he pulled a face, “It would have been boring.”

“You bastard,” Murphy said, “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Enough?” Kane laughed, “I’ve barely started.” He swept out his hand in a grand gesture, “I could make Raymond walk off the top of this tower. Seventeen floors… there wouldn’t be much left, would there? I could make him turn his gun on himself with no hesitation… or maybe one of you. Imagine how that would feel…” Kane threw the gun on the ground. “I don’t need this,” he sneered. “I could make you all shoot each other. You wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t think. And then, when only one of you is left alive, I would remove the illusion and let you see the monster you have become.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Anson challenged, “What’s stopping you?”

“Anson!” Murphy hissed, “Shut up.”

The wind was picking up, the sky darkening. Shards of rain sliced across the flat roof. The heavens had opened up and suddenly they were in the centre of a deluge to rival all the others in the last month. Bodie wiped a hand across his face, not wanting to lose track of his partner and his insane captor. “The only way down, Kane, is through us! Come on then! What are you waiting for?”

Kane’s gaze locked with Cowley’s. Decades of mutual hatred bridged the gap like lightning. In his mind’s eye, Cowley saw the men walking across the minefield over thirty-five years ago. He remembered the expression on Kane’s face, that savage smile. He remembered his own revulsion.

He remembered that he had let that happen. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bodie yelled.

Kane smiled and tightened his grip on the back of Doyle’s neck. “For you to know you’ve lost.”

 

He was in a dark room, a dark box. It was small, silent and cold. Doyle couldn’t move more than a few centimetres in any direction. What is this place?

Panic was fluttering in his chest; his bullet scars burning from the painful position he was jammed into. By no stretch of the imagination was he claustrophobic, but even the most hardened would be unsettled by the sheer isolation.

This can’t be real, he thought desperately. I’m still on the roof.

I must be.

But that last thing I remember is dizziness and darkness.

What if Kane had managed to grab him again? A shudder tore through Doyle’s body, his sweat icy on his forehead. He wasn’t going to be lucky enough to be released this time; Kane had no reason to keep him alive. There was nothing more he could tell Kane, no more useful negotiations to get CI5 off his back. 

Rescue seemed very far away.

Well, he’d just have to rescue himself, wouldn’t he?

Movement to his right made him spin or try to at least. He couldn’t do more than twist his body awkwardly.

Bodie was standing beside him, a strange, sad expression on his face.

Doyle opened his mouth to speak. His lips formed the ‘B’ just as Bodie raised his arm, took careful aim and shot Doyle twice in the chest.

Doyle doubled over, fire stabbing through his body, a tortured gasp escaping him. What the hell…?! The world was spinning, the blackness drawing closer. This Bodie took another step and aimed the gun again, this time towards Doyle’s shoulder. The memory of other bullets, of other icy spears being driven into his body, shook Doyle.

This wasn’t real.

Bodie would never hurt him.

This was an illusion.

The flood of light assaulted his eyes, the wind roared loud in his ears and slapped at his jacket. Heat soaked through to his skin and Doyle could feel an iron grip at the back of his neck. Kane was holding him by the back of his shirt, he realised groggily.

He only had one chance.

He twirled, muscles uncoiling explosively.

It wasn’t an accurate kick. It wasn’t going to break open a lock or split doors. It certainly wouldn’t have pleased Macklin, but what it did have was a lot of conviction.

Kane staggered backwards, hands grasping for his captive. Doyle fell too, away from Kane, knowing without a doubt that whatever Kane did next he couldn’t counter. He’d used all his energy on one, last, desperate move.

But he’d done enough.

Kane wavered at the edge of the building, arms freewheeling in a frantic attempt to right himself –

And disappeared over the edge of a seventeen-floor tower.

Kane had been right. There wouldn’t be much left of him.

No one bothered to call an ambulance.

***

Cowley sighed and threw the file onto his desk. Rubbing his eyes with his hand, he said, “Two years. You two have been l…” he swallowed and tried again, “Love…”

“Lovers,” Doyle said hotly. “You can say it, you know.”

“You didn’t bother informing me, no!” Cowley snapped, ignoring Doyle’s point. “Do you have any idea what kind of security risk this could be? This could break you. You’d never be able to work for the Civil Service again.”

“We know.” Bodie wouldn’t meet Cowley’s eyes. He stood in at stiff parade rest, expression stony. “And we don’t care about that, sir.”

“It wasn’t exactly a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Doyle said, “It just… happened and then... we decided to continue.”

“Yeah, when this idiot finally put two-and-two together,” Bodie said with a faint smile.

Cowley sighed again and picked up a pen from his desk. “You do understand that, legally, I’m required to dismiss you from CI5 if you insist on maintaining this foolishness, don’t you?” he asked, twirling the pen through his fingers.

“It’s not foolishness,” Bodie answered curtly.

“And we were aware of the consequences,” Doyle said, glancing at Bodie. “We agreed that it was worth the risks.”

“Oh good!” Cowley couldn’t keep the disdain out of his voice, “You two agreed. You didn’t think about this organisation? You’re open to all sorts of blackmail, smear campaigns, coercion…”

Doyle stepped forwards. His face was thunderous, eyes flashing like lightning. “In that case, you’ll accept our resignations, sir?”

Cowley paused. “Your… resignations?” he said.

“Written for this very eventuality,” Bodie said calmly, “All we have to do is give them to you.”

Cowley went silent. He replaced the pen and fiddled with his glasses. Bodie and Doyle watched him, shoulder to shoulder. Cowley knew they weren’t bluffing; they were completely and utterly committed to this course.

He couldn’t allow this, he thought furiously, if those pig-headed fools insisted –

But part of Cowley was marvelling at the fact that he had only discovered their secret now. Two years, they’d managed to hide it. Two years of being a couple and remaining closeted. Had it just been because no one had dared to think that Bodie and Doyle, the hard men of CI5, could possibly be – possibly be queer? Or had they successfully hidden it?

Cowley ran a hand through his thinning hair and replaced his glasses. “I don’t approve,” he said finally, “I don’t like internal relationships between my agents and I can’t say I’m comfortable about two men together.”

“You seemed fine to send us undercover for Pellin,” Bodie pointed out.

“That was different, Bodie.”

“How?”

“Pellin wasn’t a security risk, man! Think about it.” Cowley walked over to his cabinet and withdrew three glasses. “You’re a good team, you two. Apart from a few instances,” he gave Bodie a significant look, “You have obeyed orders and gotten the job done.”

Bodie and Doyle waited. Doyle shifted his weight, his gaze meeting Bodie’s nervously.

“And since I – and many more agents, I expect – now know about your…” again he couldn’t bring himself to admit what was going on between the two men in front of him, “arrangement, I think that any blackmail attempts can reasonably be dealt with.”

Bodie and Doyle grinned as they realised what Cowley was saying.

It was Doyle who asked, “You’re letting us stay in CI5?”

Cowley nodded and finished pouring the last glass of Scotch. “Aye, laddie. Like I said, you’re a good team. You’ve worked well in the last few days.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bodie said, accepting the drink. With his other hand, he squeezed Doyle’s hand once. “You won’t regret this.”

Cowley gave them a strange look. “I hope not, Bodie,” he said. “You are aware that several of the other agents may have… less accepting views?”

Doyle nodded, “We can handle that.”

Cowley pointed at him, “Non-violently, I hope?”

Pursing his lips, Doyle replied lightly, “Of course, sir. No violence will be necessary, sir. After all, words are better than bullets, aren’t they, Bodie?”

Bodie nodded; a wicked half-grin on his lips, “We are known for our kind and sympathetic nature, sir.”

Cowley settled back into his chair and took a sip of his Scotch. “Good lads,” he said, “Gently, eh?”

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise if any of the characters are OOC and for any spelling or grammatical mistakes. I always miss a few.


End file.
